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LADV    KITTV    BRISTOL 


The     Marriage 

of 

William    Ashe 


BY 


MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD 

Author  oS  "Lady  Rose's  Daughter"  "  Eleanor',  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 
ALBERT     STERNER 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AMD  LONDON 
1905 


Copyright,  1904,  1905,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

Ail  rights  rtsrr-ved. 
Published  March,  1905. 


Contents 


PAGE 


PART   I.— ACQUAINTANCE i 

PART    II.— THREE    YEARS   AFTER    ....     125 

PART    III.— DEVELOPMENT .293 

PART   IV.— STORM 365 

PART   V.~REQUIESCAT 511 


TO 

D. 

M.  W. 

DAUGHTER 

AND 

FRIEND 

I 

INSCRIBE  THIS 

BOOK 

MARCH 

iqo5 

Illustrations 


LADY    KITTY    BRISTOI Frontispiece 

LADY  TRANMORE  AND  MARY  LYSTER  .  .  .  .  .  Facing  page  6 
"a    SLIM    GIRL    IN    WHITE    AT    THE    FAR    END    OF   THE 

LARGE    room" "                 44 

THE    FINISHING    TOUCHES "              200 

"he    GATHERED    HER    IN    HIS    ARMs" "              278 

"the  ACTRESS  PAUSED  TO  STARE  AT  LADY  KITTY  "  "  438 
"she    THOUGHT    OF    CLIFFE    STANDING    BESIDE    THE 

DOOR    OF    THE    GREAT    HALL " "             474 

"he     DREW    SOME     CHAIRS    TOGETHER    BEFORE    THE 

fire" "         556 


PART    I 
ACQUAINTANCE 


"  Just  oblige  me  and  touch 
With  youi  scouige  that  minx  Chloe,  but  don't  hurt  her  much. 


The  Marriage  of  William  Ashe 


HE  ought  to  be  here,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  as  she 
turned  away  from  the  window. 

Mary  Lyster  laid  down  her  work.  It  was  a  fine  piece 
of  church  embroidery,  which,  seeing  that  it  had  been  de- 
signed for  her  by  no  less  a  person  than  young  Mr.  Burne 
Jones  himself,  made  her.,the  envy  of  her  pre-Raphaelite 
friends. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  You  made  out  there  was  a  train  about 
twelve." 

"Certainly.  They  can't  have  taken  more  than  an 
hour  to  speechify  after  the  declaration  of  the  poll.  And 
I  know  William  meant  to  catch  that  train  if  he  possibly 
could." 

"And  take  his  seat  this  evening?" 

Lady  Tranmore  nodded.  She  moved  restlessly  about 
the  room,  fidgeting  with  a  book  here  and  there,  and 
evidently  full  of  thoughts.  Mary  Lyster  watched  her  a 
little  longer,  then  quietly  took  up  her  work  again.  Her 
air  of  well-bred  sympathy,  the  measured  ease  of  her 
movements,  contrasted  with  Lady  Tranmore's  im- 
patience.    Yet  in  truth  she  was  listening  no  less  sharply 

3 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

than  her  companion  to  the  sounds  in  the  street  out- 
side. 

Lady  Tranmore  made  her  way  to  the  window,  and 
stood  there  looking  out  on  the  park.  It  was  the  week 
before  Easter,  and  the  plane-trees  were  not  yet  in  leaf. 
But  a  few  thorns  inside  the  park  railings  were  already 
lavishly  green  and  there  was  a  glitter  of  spring  flowers 
beside  the  park  walks,  not  showing,  however,  in  such 
glorious  abundance  as  became  the  fashion  a  few  years 
later.  It  was  a  mild  afternoon  and  the  drive  was  full  of 
carriages.  From  the  bow-window  of  the  old  irregular 
house  in  which  she  stood.  Lady  Tranmore  could  watch 
the  throng  passing  and  repassing,  could  see  also  the 
traffic  in  Park  Lane  on  either  side.  London,  from  this 
point  of  sight,  wore  a  cheerful,  friendly  air.  The  dim 
sunshine,  the  white-clouded  sky,  the  touches  of  reviving 
green  and  flowers,  the  soft  air  blowing  in  from  a  farther 
window  which  was  open,  brought  with  them  impressions 
of  spring,  of  promise,  and  rebirth,  which  insensibly 
affected  Lady  Tranmore. 

"Well,  I  wonder  what  William  will  do,  this  time,  in 
Parliament!"  she  said,  as  she  dropped  again  into  her 
seat  by  the  fire  and  began  to  cut  the  pages  of  a  new 
book. 

"He  is  sure  to  do  extremely  well,"  said  Miss  Lyster. 

Lady  Tranmore  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  My  dear — 
do  you  know  that  William  has  been  for  eight  years — 
since  he  left  Trinity — one  of  the  idlest  young  men  alive  ?" 

"He  had  one  brief!" 

"Yes  —  somewhere  in  the  country,  where  all  the 
juniors  get  one  in  turn,"  said  Lady  Tranmore.  "That 
was   the  year  he   was   so   keen   and  went  on   circuit, 

4 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

and  never  missed  a  sessions.  Next  year  nothing  would 
induce  him  to  stir  out  of  town.  What  has  he  done 
with  himself  all  these  eight  years?     I  can't  imagine." 

"He  has  grown — uncommonly  handsome,"  said  Mary 
Lyster,  with  a  momentary  hesitation  as  she  threaded  her 
needle  afresh. 

"I  never  remember  him  anything  else,"  said  Lady 
Tranmore.  "All  the  artists  who  came  here  and  to 
Narroways  wanted  to  paint  him.  I  used  to  think  it 
would  make  him  a  spoiled  little  ape.  But  nothing 
spoiled  him." 

Miss  Lyster  smiled.  "You  know,  Cousin  Elizabeth — 
and  you  may  as  well  confess  it  at  once!— that  you  think 
him  the  ablest,  handsomest,  and  charmingest  of  men!" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  calmly.  "I 
am  certain,  moreover — now — that  he  will  be  Prime  Minis- 
ter. And  as  for  idleness,  that,  of  course,  is  only  a  fagon 
de  parler.  He  has  worked  hard  enough  at  the  things 
which  please  him." 

"There — you  see!"  said  Mary  Lyster,  laughing. 

"Not  politics,  anyway,"  said  the  elder  lady,  reflec- 
tively. "  He  went  into  the  House  to  please  me,  because 
I  was  a  fool  and  wanted  to  see  him  there.  But  I  nmst 
say  when  his  constituents  turned  him  out  last  year  I 
thought  they  would  have  been  a  mean-spirited  set  if 
they  hadn't.  They  knew  very  well  he'd  never  done  a 
stroke  for  them.  Attendances  —  divisions  —  perfectly 
scandalous!" 

"Well,  here  he  is,  in  triumphantly  for  somewhere  else 
— with  all  sorts  of  delightful  prospects!" 

Lady  Tranmore  sighed.  Her  white  fingers  paused  in 
their  task. 

5 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"That,  of  course,  is  because — now — he's  a  personage. 
Everything  '11  be  made  easy  for  him  now.  My  dear 
Mary,  they  talk  of  England's  being  a  democracy!" 

The  speaker  raised  her  handsome  shoulders;  then, 
as  though  to  shake  off  thoughts  of  loss  and  grief  which 
had  suddenly  assailed  her,  she  abruptly  changed  the 
subject. 

"Well — work  or  no  work — the  first  thing  we've  got  to 
do  is  to  marry  him." 

She  looked  up  sharply.  But  not  the  smallest  tremor 
Gould  she  detect  in  Mary  Lyster's  gently  moving  hand. 
There  was,  however,  no  reply  to  her  remark. 

"Don't  you  agree,  Polly?"  said  Lady  Tranmore, 
smiling. 

Her  smile — which  still  gave  great  beauty  to  her  face — 
was  charming,  but  a  little  sly,  as  she  observed  her 
companion. 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Lyster,  inclining  her  head 
to  one  side  that  she  might  judge  the  effect  of  some  green 
shades  she  had  just  put  in.  "But  that  surely  will  be 
made  easy  for  him,  too." 

"Well,  after  all,  the  girls  can't  propose!  And  I 
never  saw  him  take  any  interest  in  a  girl  yet — outside 
his  own  family,  of  course,"  added  Lady  Tranmore, 
hastily. 

"No— he  does  certainly  devote  himself  to  the  married 
women,"  replied  Miss  Lyster,  in  the  half-absent  tone  of 
one  more  truly  interested  in  her  embroidery  than  in  the 
conversation. 

"He  would  sooner  have  an  hour  with  Madame  d'Es- 
trees  than  a  week  with  the  prettiest  miss  in  London. 
That's  quite  true,  b.ut  I  vow  it's  the  girls'  own  fault! 

6 


LADY    TRAXMORE    AND    MARY    LYSTER 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

They  should  stand  on  their  dignity — snub  the  creatures 
more!     In  my  young  days — " 

"Ah,  there  wasn't  a  glut  of  us  then,"  said  Mary,  calm- 
ly.    "Listen!" — she  held  up  her  hand. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  springing  up.  "There 
he  is." 

She  stood  waiting.  The  door  flew  open,  and  in  came 
a  tall  young  man. 

"William,  how  late  you  are!"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  as 
she  flew  into  his  arms. 

"Well,  mother,  are  you  pleased?" 

Her  son  held  her  at  arm's-length,  smiling  kindly  upon 
her. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Lady  Tranmore.  "And 
you — are  you  horribly  tired?" 

"Not  a  bit.     Ah,  Mary! — how  do  you  do?"  « 

Miss  Lyster  had  risen,  and  the  cousins  shook  hands. 

"  But  I  don't  deny  it's  very  jolly  to  come  back — out  of 
all  that  beastly  scrimmage,"  said  the  new  member,  as 
he  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire  with  hii 
hands  behind  his  head,  while  Lady  Tranmore  prepared 
him  a  cup  of  tea. 

"I  expect  you've  enjoyed  it,"  said  Miss  Lyster,  also 
moving  towards  the  fire. 

"Well,  when  you're  in  it  there's  a  certain  excitement 
in  wondering  how  you're  going  to  come  out  of  it!  But 
one  might  say  that,  of  course,  of  the  infernal  regions." 

"Not  quite,"  said  Mary  Lyster,  smiling  demurely. 

"Polly!  you  are  a  Tory.  Everybody  else's  hell  has 
moved — but  yours!  Thank  you,  mother,"  as  Lady 
Tranmore  gave  him  tea.  Then,  stretching  out  his  great 
frame  in  lazy  satisfaction,  he  turned  his  brown  eyes  from 

3 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

one  lady  to  the  other.  "I  say,  mother,  I  haven't  seen 
anything  as  good-looking  as  you — or  Polly  there,  if 
she'll  forgive  me — for  weeks." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  goose,"  said  his  mother,  as  she 
replenished  the  teapot.  "What — there  were  no  pretty 
girls — not  one?" 

"Well,  they  didn't  come  my  wa}^"  said  William,  con- 
tentedly munching  at  bread-and-butter.  "I  have  gone 
through  all  the  usual  humbug — and  perjured  my  soul  in 
all  the  usual  ways — without  any  consolation  worth 
speaking  of." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  sir,"  said  Lady  Tranmore.  "  You 
know  you  like  speaking — and  you  like  compliments — 
and  you've  had  plenty  of  both." 

"You  didn't  read  me,  mother!" 

^"Didn't  I  ?"  she  said,  smiling.  He  groaned,  and  took 
another  piece  of  tea-cake. 

"My  own  family  at  least,  don't  you  think,  might 
omit  that?" 

"  H'm,  sir — •  So  you  didn't  believe  a  word  of  your  own 
speeches  ?"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  as  she  stood  behind  him 
and  smoothed  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead. 

"Well,  who  does?"  He  looked  up  gayly  and  kissed 
the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

"And  it's  in  that  spirit  you're  going  back  into  the 
House?"  Mary  Lyster  threw  him  the  question — with 
a  slight  pinching  of  the  lipS' — as  she  resumed  her 
work. 

"Spirit?  What  do  you  mean,  Polly?  One  plays  the 
game,  of  course — and  it  has  its  moments — its  hot  corners, 
so  to  speak — or  I  suppose  no  one  would  play  it!" 

"And  the  goal?"     She  lifted  a  gently  disapproving 

8 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

face,  in  a  movement  which  showed  anew  the  large  comeH- 
ness  of  head  and  neck. 

"Why  —  to  keep  the  other  fellows  out,  of  course!" 
He  lifted  an  arm  and  drew  his  mother  down  to  sit  on  the 
edge  of  his  chair. 

"William,  you're  not  to  talk  like  that,"  said  Lady 
Tranmore,  decidedly,  laying  her  cheek,  however,  against 
his  hand  the  while.  "It  was  all  very  well  when  you 
were  quite  a  free-lance — but  now —  Oh!  never  mind 
Mary — she's  discreet — and  she  knows  all  about  it." 

"What — that  they're  thinking  of  giving  me  Hickson's 
place?  Parham  has  just  written  to  me — I  found  the 
letter  down-stairs — to  ask  me  to  go  and  see  him." 

"Oh!  it's  come?"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  with  a  start  of 
pleasure.  Lord  Parham  was  the  Prime  Minister.  "Now 
don't  be  a  humbug,  William,  and  pretend  you're  not 
pleased.  But  you'll  have  to  work,  mind!"  She  held 
up  an  admonishing  finger.  "You'll  have  to  answer 
letters,  mind! — you'll  have  to  keep  appointments, 
mind!" 

"Shall  I?  .  .  .  Ah!— Hudson— " 

He  turned.     The  butler  was  in  the  room. 

"His  lordship,  my  lady,  would  like  to  see  Mr.  William 
before  dinner  if  he  could  make  it  convenient." 

"Certainly,  Hudson,  certainly,"  said  the  young  man. 
"Tell  his  lordship  I'll  be  with  him  in  ten  minutes." 

Then,  as  the  butler  departed — "How's  father,  moth- 
er?" 

"Oh!  much  as  usual,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  sadly. 

"And  you?" 

He  laid  his  arm  boyishly  round  her  waist,  and  looked 
up  at  her,  his  handsome  face  all  affection  and  life.    Mary 

9 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Lyster,  observing  them,  thought  them  a  remarkable  pair 
- — he  in  the  very  prime  and  heyday  of  brilHant  youth, 
she  so  beautiful  still,  in  spite  of  the  filling-out  of  middle 
life — which,  indeed,  was  at  the  moment  somewhat  toned 
and  disguised  by  the  deep  mourning,  the  sweeping  crajje 
and  dull  silk  in  which  she  was  dressed. 

"I'm  all  right,  dear,"  she  said,  quietly,  putting  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Now,  go  on  with  your  tea. 
Mary — feed  him!  I'll  go  and  talk  to  father  till  you 
come." 

She  disappeared,  and  William  Ashe  approached  his 
cousin. 

*'  She  is  better  ?"  he  said,  with  an  anxiety  that  became 
him. 

"Oh  yes!  Your  election  has  been  everything  to  her 
— and  your  letters.  You  know  how  she  adores  you, 
WiUiam." 

Ashe  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Yes— isn't  it  bad  luck  ?" 

"William!" 

"For  her,  I  mean.  Because,  you  know — I  can't  live 
up  to  it.  I  know  it's  her  doing — bless  her! — that  old 
Parham's  going  to  give  me  this  thing.  And  it's  a  perfect 
scandal!" 

"What  nonsense,  William!" 

"It  is!"  he  maintained,  springing  up  and  standing 
before  her,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "They're 
going  to  offer  me  the  Under-Secretaryship  for  Foreign 
Affairs,  and  I  shall  take  it,  I  suppose,  and  be  thankful. 
And  do  you  know" — he  dropped  out  the  words  with 
emphasis — "that  I  don't  know  a  word  of  German — and 
I  can't  talk  to  a  Frenchman  for  half  an  hour  without 

lO 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

disgracing  myself.  There  —  that's  how  we're  gov- 
erned!" 

He  stood  staring  at  her  with  his  bright  large  eyes — 
amused,  yet  strangely  detached — as  though  he  had  very 
httle  to  do  with  what  he  was  talking  about. 

Mary  Lyster  met  his  look  in  some  bewilderment, 
conscious  all  the  time  that  his  neighborhood  was  very 
agreeable  and  stirring. 

"But  every  one  says — you  speak  so  well  on  foreign 
subjects." 

"Well,  any  fool  can  get  up  a  Blue  Book.  Only — 
luckily  for  me — all  the  fools  don't.  That's  how  I've 
scored  sometimes.  Oh!  I  don't  deny  that — I've  scored!" 
He  thrust  his  hands  deeper  into  his  pockets,  his  whole 
tall  frame  vibrant,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  with  will  and 
good-humor. 

"And  you'll  score  again,"  she  said,  smiling.  "You've 
got  a  wonderful  opportunity,  William.  That's  what  the 
Bishop  says." 

"Much  obHged  to  him!" 

Ashe  looked  down  upon  her  rather  oddly. 

"He  told  me  he  had  never  believed  you  were  such  an 
idler  as  other  people  thought  you — that  he  felt  sure  you 
had  great  endowments,  and  that  you  would  use  them  for 
the  good  of  your  country,  and" — she  hesitated  slightly 
— "  of  the  Church.  I  wish  you'd  talk  to  him  sometimes, 
William.     He  sees  so  clearly." 

"Oh!  does  he?"  said  Ashe. 

Mary  had  dropped  her  work,  and  her  face — a  little  too 
broad,  with  features  a  trifle  too  strongly  marked — was 
raised  towards  him.  Its  pale  color  had  passed  into  a 
slight  blush.     But  the  more  strenuous  expression  had 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

somehow  not  added  to  her  charm,  and  her  voice  had 
taken  a  sUghtly  nasal  tone. 

Through  the  mind  of  WiUiam  Ashe,  as  he  stood 
looking  down  upon  her,  passed  a  multitude  of  flying 
impressions.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  Mary  Lyster 
was  one  of  the  maidens  whom  it  would  be  possible  for 
him  to  marry.  His  mother  had  never  pressed  her  upon 
him,  but  she  would  certainly  acquiesce.  It  would  have 
been  mere  mock  modesty  on  his  part  not  to  guess  that 
Mary  would  probably  not  refuse  him.  And  she  was 
handsome,  well  provided,  well  connected — oppressively 
so,  indeed ;  a  man  might  quail  a  little  before  her  relations. 
Moreover,  she  and  he  had  always  been  good  friends, 
even  when  as  a  boy  he  could  not  refrain  from  teasing 
her  for  a  slow-coach.  During  his  electoral  weeks  in  the 
country  the  thought  of  "Polly"  had  often  stolen  kindly 
upon  his  rare  moments  of  peace.  He  must  marry,  of 
course.  There  was  no  particular  excitement  or  romance 
about  it.  Now  that  his  elder  brother  was  dead  and  he 
had  become  the  heir,  it  simply  had  to  be  done.  And 
Polly  was  very  nice — quite  sweet-tempered  and  intelli- 
gent. She  looked  well,  moved  well,  would  fill  the  posi- 
tion admirably. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  these  half-thoughts  rushed  through 
his  brain,  a  breath  of  something  cold  and  distracting — 
a  wind  from  the  land  of  ennui — seemed  to  blow  upon 
them  and  scatter  them.  Was  it  the  mention  of  the 
Bishop  —  tiresome,  pompous  fellow  —  or  her  slightly 
pedantic  tone — or  the  infinitesimal  hint  of  "manage- 
ment" that  her  speech  implied?  Who  knows?  But  in 
that  moment  perhaps  the  scales  of  life  inclined. 

"Much  obliged  to  the  Bishop,"  he  repeated,  walking 

12 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

up  and  down.  "I  am  afraid,  however,  I  don't  take 
things  as  seriously  as  he  does.  Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  be- 
have decently  —  but,  good  Lord,  what  a  comedy  it  is! 
You  know  the  sort  of  articles" — he  turned  towards  her 
— "  our  papers  will  be  writing  to-morrow  on  my  appoint- 
ment. They'll  make  me  out  no  end  of  a  fine  fellow — 
you'll  see!  And,  of  course,  the  real  truth  is,  as  3'-ou  and 
I  know  perfectly  well,  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  poor 
Freddy's  death — and  mother — and  her  dinners — and  the 
chaps  who  come  here — I  might  have  whistled  for  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  And  then  I  go  down  to  Ledmenham 
and  stand  as  a  Liberal,  and  get  all  the  pious  Rad- 
icals to  work  for  me!  It's  a  humbugging  world — isn't 
it?" 

He  returned  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  her — grinning. 

Mary  had  resumed  her  embroidery.  She,  too,  was 
dimly  conscious  of  something  disappointing. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  choose  to  take  it  like  that,  you  can," 
she  said,  rather  tartly.  "Of  course,  everything  can  be 
made  ridiculous." 

"Well,  that's  a  blessing,  anyway!"  said  Ashe,  with 
his  merry  laugh.  "But  look  here,  Mary,  tell  me  about 
yourself.  What  have  you  been  doing? — dancing — rid- 
ing, eh?" 

He  threw  himself  down  beside  her,  and  began  an 
elder-brotherly  cross-examination,  which  lasted  till  Lady 
Tranmore  returned  and  begged  him  to  go  at  once  to  his 
father. 

When  he  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  Ashe  found 
his  mother  alone.  It  was  growing  dark,  and  she  was 
sitting  idle,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  waiting  for  him. 

13 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"I  must  be  off,  dear,"  he  said  to  her.  "You  won't 
come  down  and  see  me  take  my  seat?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  think  not.     What  did  you  think  of  your  father?" 

"I  don't  see  much  change,"  he  said,  hesitating. 

"No,  he's  much  the  same." 

"And  you  ?"  He  sUd  down  on  the  sofa  beside  her  and 
threw  his  arm  round  her.     "Have  you  been  fretting?" 

Lady  Tranmore  made  no  reply.  She  was  a  self-con- 
tained woman,  not  readily  moved  to  tears.  But  he  felt 
her  hand  tremble  as  he  pressed  it. 

"I  sha'n't  fret  now" — she  said  after  a  moment — 
"now  that  you've  come  back." 

Ashe's  face  took  a  very  soft  and  tender  expression, 

"  Mother,  you  know — you  think  a  great  deal  too  much 
of  me — you're  too  ambitious  for  me." 

She  gave  a  sound  between  a  laugh  and  a  sob,  and, 
raising  her  hands,  she  smoothed  back  his  curly  hair  and 
held  his  face  between  them. 

"When  do  you  see  Lord  Parham?"  she  asked. 

"Eight  o'clock — in  his  room  at  the  House.  I'll  send 
you  up  a  note." 

"You'll  be  home  early?" 

"No — don't  wait  for  me." 

She  dropped  her  hands,  after  giving  him  a  kiss  on  the 
cheek. 

"I  know  where  you're  going!  It's  Madame  d'Es- 
trees'  evening." 

"Well — you  don't  object?" 

"  Object  ?"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  So  long  as 
it  amuses  you —  You  won't  find  one  woman  there  to- 
night." 

14 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Last  time  there  were  two,"  he  said,  smiUng,  as  he 
rose  from  the  sofa. 

"I  know — Lady  Quantock — and  Mrs.  Mallory.  Now 
they've  deserted  her,  I  hear.  What  fresh  gossip  has 
turned  up  I  don't  know.  Of  course,"  she  sighed, 
"I've  been  out  of  the  world.  But  I  believe  there  have 
been  developments." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it — and  I  don't 
think  I  want  to  know.  She's  very  agreeable,  and  one 
meets  everybody  there." 

"Everybody.  Ungallant  creature!"  she  said,  giving  a 
little  pull  to  his  collar,  the  set  of  which  did  not  please 
her. 

"Sorry!  Mother!" — his  laughing  eyes  pursued  her — 
"  Do  you  want  to  marry  me  off  directly  ? — I  know  you 
do!" 

"I  want  nothing  but  what  you  yourself  should  want. 
Of  course,  you  must  marry." 

"The  young  women  don't  care  twopence  about  me!" 

"William! — be  a  bear  if  you  like,  but  not  an  idiot!" 

"Perfectly  true,"  he  declared;  "not  the  dazzlers  and 
the  high-fliers,  anyway — the  only  ones  it  would  be  an 
excitement  to  carry  oft"." 

"You  know  very  well,"  she  said,  slowly,  "that  now 
you  might  marry  cinybody," 

He  threw  his  head  back  rather  haughtily. 

"Oh!  I  wasn't  thinking  about  money,  and  that  kind 
of  thing.  Well,  give  me  time,  mother — don't  hurry  me! 
And  now  I'd  better  stop  talking  nonsense,  change  my 
clothes,  and  be  oft'.  Good-bye,  dear — you  shall  hear 
when  the  job's  perpetrated!" 

"William,  really! — don't  say  these  things — at  least  to 

IS 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

anybody  but  me.  You  understand  very  well" — she 
drew  herself  up  rather  finely — "that  if  I  hadn't  known, 
in  spite  of  your  apparent  idleness,  you  would  do  any 
work  they  set  you  to  do,  to  your  own  credit  and  the 
country's,  I'd  never  have  lifted  a  finger  for  you!' 

William  Ashe  laughed  out. 

"Oh!  intriguing  mother!"  he  said,  stooping  again  to 
kiss  her.     "So  you  admit  you  did  it?" 

He  went  off  gayly,  and  she  heard  him  flying  up- 
stairs three  steps  at  a  time,  as  though  he  were  still  an 
untamed  Eton  boy,  and  there  were  no  three  weeks'  hard 
political  fighting  behind  him,  and  no  interview  which 
might  decide  his  life  before  him. 

He  entered  his  own  sitting-room  on  the  second  floor, 
shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  glanced  round  him  with 
delight.  It  was  a  large  room  looking  on  a  side  street, 
and  obliquely  to  the  park.  Its  walls  were  covered  with 
books — books  which  almost  at  first  sight  betrayed  to  the 
accustomed  eye  that  they  were  the  familiar  companions 
of  a  student.  Almost  every  volume  had  long  paper  slips 
inside  it,  and  when  opened  would  have  been  found  to 
contain  notes  and  underlinings  in  a  somewhat  reckless 
and  destructive  abundance.  A  large  table,  also  loaded 
untidily  with  books  and  papers,  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  room;  many  of  them  were  note-books,  stored  with 
evidences  of  the  most  laborious  and  patient  work;  a 
Cambridge  text  lay  beside  them  face  downward,  as  he 
had  left  it  on  departure.  His  mother's  housekeeper, 
who  had  been  one  of  his  best  friends  from  babyhood,  was 
the  only  person  allowed  to  dust  his  room — but  on  the 
strict  condition  that  she  replaced  everything  as  she 
found  it. 

j6 


The    Marriage    o§  William    Ashe 

He  took  up  the  volume,  and  plunged  a  moment 
headlong  into  the  Greek  chorus  that  met  his  eye. 
"Jolly  I"  he  said,  putting  it  down  with  a  sigh  of  regret. 
"These  beastly  politics!" 

And  he  went  muttering  to  his  dressing-room,  sum- 
moning his  valet  almost  with  ill-temper.  Yet  half  his 
library  was  the  library  of  a  politician,  admirably  chosen 
and  exhaustively  read. 

The  footman  who  answered  his  call  understood  his 
moods  and  served  him  at  a  look.  Ashe  complained 
hotly  of  the  brushing  of  his  dress-clothes,  and  worked 
himself  into  a  fever  over  the  set  of  his  tie.  Nevertheless, 
before  he  left  he  had  managed  to  get  from  the  young  man 
the  whole  story  of  his  engagement  to  the  under-house- 
maid,  giving  him  thereupon  some  bits  of  advice,  jocular 
but  trenchant,  which  James  accepted  with  a  readiness 
quite  unlike  his  normal  behavior  in  the  circles  of  his 
class. 


II 


ASHE  took  his  seat,  dined,  and  saw  the  Prime  Min- 
I\  ister.  These  things  took  time,  and  it  was  not  till 
past  eleven  that  he  presented  himself  in  the  hall  of 
Madame  d'Estr^es'  house  in  St.  James's  Place.  Most  of 
her  guests  were  already  gathered,  but  he  mounted  the 
stairs  together  with  an  old  friend  and  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, Philip  Darrell,  one  of  the  ablest  writers  of  the  mo- 
ment, and  Louis  Harman,  artist  and  man  of  fashion,  the 
friend  of  duchesses  and  painter  of  portraits ,  a  person 
much  in  request  in  many  worlds. 

"What  a  cachet  they  have,  these  houses!"  said  Har- 
man, looking  round  him.  "St.  James's  Place  is  the 
top!" 

"Where  else  would  you  expect  to  find  Madame 
d'Estr^es?"  asked  Darrell,  smiling. 

"Yes — ^what  taste  she  has!  However,  it  was  I  really 
who  advised  her  to  take  the  house." 

"Naturally,"  said  Darrell. 

Harman  threw  a  dubious  look  at  him,  then  stopped 
a  moment,  and  with  a  complacent  proprietary  air 
straightened  an  engraving  on  the  staircase  wall. 

"I  suppose  the  dear  lady  has  a  hundred  slaves  of 
the  lamp,  as  usual,"  said  Ashe.  "You  advise  her  about 
her  house  —  somebody  else  helps  her  to  buy  her 
wine — " 

t8 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Harman,  offended — 
"as  if  I  couldn't  do  that!" 

"Hullo!"  said  Darrell,  as  they  neared  the  drawing- 
room  door.     "What  a  crowd  there  is!" 

For  as  the  butler  announced  them,  the  din  of  talk 
which  burst  through  the  door  implied  indeed  a  multitude 
— much  at  their  ease. 

They  made  their  way  in  with  difficulty,  shaping  their 
course  towards  that  corner  in  the  room  where  they  knew 
they  should  find  their  hostess.  Ashe  was  greeted  on  all 
sides  with  friendly  words  and  congratulations,  and  a 
passage  was  opened  for  him  to  the  famous  "blue  sofa" 
where  Madame  d'Estrces  sat  enthroned. 

She  looked  up  with  animation,  broke  off  her  talk  with 
two  elderly  diplomats  who  seemed  to  have  taken  pos- 
session of  her,  and  beckoned  Ashe  to  a  seat  beside 
her. 

"So  you're  in?     Was  it  a  hard  fight?" 

"A  hard  fight?  Oh  no!  One  would  have  had  to  be 
a  great  fool  not  to  get  in." 

"They  say  you  spoke  very  well.  I  suppose  you 
promised  them  everything  they  wanted  —  from  the 
crown  downward?" 

"Yes — all  the  usual  harmless  things,"  said  Ashe. 

Madame  d'Estrees  laughed;  then  looked  at  him  across 
the  top  of  her  fan. 

"Well! — and  what  else?" 

"You  can't  wait  for  your  newspaper?"  he  said, 
smiling,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  good-humoredly. 

"Oh!  I  know — of  course  I  know.  Is  it  as  good  as 
you  expected?" 

19 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"As  good  as — "  The  young  man  opened  his  mouth 
in  wonder.     "What  right  had  I  to  expect  anything?" 

"How  modest!  All  the  same,  they  want  you — and 
they're  very  glad  to  get  you.     But  you  can't  save  them." 

"That's  not  generally  expected  of  Under-Secretaries, 
is  it?" 

"A  good  deal's  expected  of  you.  I  talked  to  Lord 
Parham  about  you  last  night." 

William  Ashe  flushed  a  little. 

"Did  you?     Very  kind  of  you." 

"Not  at  all.  I  didn't  flatter  you  in  the  least.  Nor 
did  he.     But  they're  going  to  give  you  your  chance!" 

She  bent  forward  and  lightly  patted  the  sleeve  of  his 
coat  with  the  fingers  of  a  very  delicate  hand.  In  this 
sympathetic  aspect,  Madame  d'Estrees  was  no  doubt 
exceedingly  attractive.  There  were,  of  course,  many 
people  who  were  not  moved  by  it;  to  whom  it  was  the 
conjuring  of  an  arch  pretender.  But  these  were  generally 
of  the  female  sex.  Men,  at  any  rate,  lent  themselves  to 
the  illusion.  Ashe,  certainly,  ha,d  always  done  so.  And 
to-night  the  spell  still  worked ;  though  as  her  action  drew 
his  particular  attention  to  her  face  and  expression,  he  was 
aware  of  slight  changes  in  her  which  recalled  his  mother's 
words  of  the  afternoon.  The  eyes  were  tired;  at  last  he 
perceived  in  them  some  slight  signs  of  years  and  harass. 
Up  till  now  her  dominating  charm  had  been  a  kind  of 
timeless  softness  and  sensuousness,  which  breathed  from 
her  whole  personality — from  her  fair  skin  and  hair,  her 
large,  smiling  eyes.  She  put,  as  it  were,  the  question 
of  age  aside.  It  was  difficult  to  think  of  her  as  a 
child;  it  had  been  impossible  to  imagine  her  as  an  old 
woman. 

20 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Well,  this  is  all  very  surprising,"  said  Ashe,  "con- 
sidering that  four  months  ago  I  did  not  matter  an  old 
shoe  to  anybody." 

"That  was  your  own  fault.  You  took  no  trouble. 
And  besides  —  there  was  your  poor  brother  in  the 
way." 

Ashe's  brow  contracted, 

"No,  that  he  never  was,"  he  said,  with  energy. 
"Freddy  was  never  in  anybody's  way — least  of  all  in 
mine." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said,  hastily.  "And 
you  know  what  friends  he  and  I  were — poor  Freddy! 
But,  after  all,  the  world's  the  world." 

"Yes — we  all  grow  on  somebody's  grave,"  said  Ashe. 
Then,  just  as  she  became  conscious  that  she  had  jarred 
upon  him,  and  must  find  a  new  opening,  he  himself  found 
it.  "Tell  me!"  he  said,  bending  forward  with  a  sudden 
alertness — "who  is  that  lady?" 

He  pointed  out  a  little  figure  in  white,  sitting  in  the 
opening  of  the  second  drawing-room;  a  very  young  girl 
apparently,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  men. 

"Ah!"  said  Madame  d'Estrees — "I  was  coming  to 
that — that's  my  girl  Kitty — " 

"  Lady  Kitty!"  said  Ashe,  in  amazement.  "  She's  left 
school?     I  thought  she  was  quite  a  little  thing." 

"She's  eighteen.  Isn't  she  a  darling?  Don't  you 
think  her  very  pretty?" 

Ashe  looked  a  moment. 

"Extraordinarily  bewitching! — unlike  other  people?" 
he  said,  turning  to  the  mother. 

Madame  d'Estrees  raised  her  eyebrows  a  little,  in 
apparent  amusement. 

21 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  I'm  not  going  to  describe  Kitty.  She's  indescribable. 
Besides — you  must  find  her  out.  Do  go  and  talk  to 
her.  She's  to  be  half  with  me,  half  with  her  aunt — Lady 
Grosville." 

Ashe  made  some  polite  comment. 

"Oh!  don't  let's  be  conventional!"  said  Madame 
d'Estrees,  flirting  her  fan  with  a  little  air  of  weariness — 
"It's  an  odious  arrangement.  Lady  Grosville  and  I,  as 
you  probably  know,  are  not  on  terms.  She  says  atrocious 
things  of  me — and  I — "  the  fair  head  fell  back  a  little, 
and  the  white  shoulders  rose,  with  the  slightest  air  of 
languid  disdain — "well,  bear  me  witness  that  I  don't 
retaliate!  It's  not  worth  while.  But  I  know  that 
Grosville  House  can  help  Kitty.  So! — "  Her  gesture, 
half  ironical,  half  resigned,  completed  the  sentence. 

"Does  Lady  Kitty  like  society?" 

"Kitty  likes  anything  that  flatters  or  excites  her." 

"  Then  of  course  she  likes  society.  Anybody  as  pretty 
as  that — " 

"Ah!  how  sweet  of  you!"  said  Madame  d'Estrees, 
softly — "how  sweet  of  you!  I  like  you  to  think  her 
pretty.     I  like  you  to  say  so." 

Ashe  felt  and  looked  a  trifle  disconcerted,  but  his 
companion  bent  forward  and  added — "I  don't  know 
whether  I  want  you  to  flirt  with  her!  You  must  take 
care.  Kitty's  the  most  fantastic  creature.  Oh!  my  life 
now  '11  beVery  different.  I  find  she  takes  all  my  thoughts 
and  most  of  my  time!" 

There  was  something  extravagant  in  the  sweetness  of 
the  smile  which  emphasized  the  speech,  and  altogether, 
Madame  d'Estrees,  in  this  new  maternal  aspect,  was  not 
as  agreeable  as  usual.     Part  of  her  charm  perhaps  had 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

always  lain  in  the  fact  that  she  had  no  domestic  topics  of 
her  own,  and  so  was  endlessly  ready  for  those  of  other 
people.  Those,  indeed,  who  came  often  to  her  house 
were  accustomed  to  speak  warmly  of  her  "unselfishness" 
— by  which  they  meant  the  easy  patience  with  which 
she  could  listen,  smile,  and  flatter. 

Perhaps  Ashe  made  this  tacit  demand  upon  her,  no 
less  than  other  people.  At  any  rate,  as  she  talked 
cooingly  on  about  her  daughter,  he  would  have  found  her 
tiresome  for  once  but  for  some  arresting  quality  in  that 
small,  distant  figure.  As  it  was,  he  followed  what  she 
said  with  attention,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  been  recapt- 
ured by  the  impatient  Italian  Ambassador,  he  moved 
off,  intending  slowly  to  make  his  way  to  Lady  Kitty. 
But  he  was  caught  in  many  congratulations  by  the  road, 
and  presently  he  saw  that  his  friend  Darrell  was  being 
introduced  to  her  by  the  old  habitue  of  the  house.  Colonel 
Warington,  who  generally  divided  with  the  hostess  the 
"lead"  of  these  social  evenings. 

Lady  Kitty  nodded  carelessly  to  Mr.  Darrell,  and  he 
sat  down  beside  her. 

"That's  a  cool  hand  for  a  girl  of  eighteen!"  thought 
Ashe.  "She  has  the  airs  of  a  princess — except  for  the 
chatter." 

Chatter  indeed!  Wherever  he  moved,  the  sound  of 
the  light  hurrying  voice  made  itself  persistently  heard 
through  the  hum  of  male  conversation. 

Yet  once,  Ashe,  looking  round  to  see  if  Darrell  could 
be  dislodged,  caught  the  chatterer  silent,  and  found  him- 
self all  at  once  invaded  by  a  slight  thrill,  or  shock. 

What  did  the  girl's  expression  mean  ? — what  was  she 
thinking  of  ?     She  was  looking  intently  at  the  crowded 

23 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

room,  and  it  seemed  to  Ashe  that  Darrell's  talk,  though 
his  Hps  moved  quickly,  was  not  reaching  her  at  all.  The 
dark  brows  were  drawn  together,  and  beneath  them  the 
eyes  looked  sorely  out.  The  delicate  lips  were  slightly, 
piteously  open,  and  the  whole  girlish  form  in  its  young 
beauty  appeared,  as  he  watched,  to  shrink  together. 
Suddenly  the  girl's  look,  so  wide  and  searching,  caught 
that  of  Ashe;  and  he  moved  impulsively  forward. 

"  Present  me,  please,  to  Lady  Kitty,"  he  said,  catching 
Warington's  arm. 

"Poor  child!"  said  a  low  voice  in  his  ear. 

Ashe  turned  and  saw  Louis  Harman.  The  tone,  how- 
ever— allusive,  intimate,  patronizing — in  which  Harman 
had  spoken,  annoyed  him,  and  he  passed  on  without 
taking  any  notice. 

"Lady  Kitty,"  said  Warington,  "Mr.  Ashe  wishes  to 
be  presented  to  3'-ou;  He  is  an  old  friend  of  your  moth- 
er's. Congratulate  him — ^he  has  just  got  into  Parlia- 
ment." 

Lady  Kitty  drew  herself  up,  and  all  trace  of  the  look 
which  Ashe  had  observed  disappeared.  She  bowed,  not 
carelessly  as  she  had  bowed  to  Darrell,  but  with  a  kind  of 
exaggerated  stateliness,  not  less  girlish. 

"I  never  congratulate  anybody,"  she  said,  shaking 
her  head,  "till  I  know  them." 

Ashe  opened  his  eyes  a  little. 

"How  long  must  I  wait?"  he  said,  smiling,  as  he  drew 
a  chair  beside  her. 

"That  depends.  Are  you  difficult  to  know?"  She 
looked  up  at  him  audaciously,  and  he  on  his  side  could 
not  take  his  eyes  from  her,  so  singular  was  the  small, 
sparkling  face.     The  hair  and  skin  were  very  fair,  like 

24 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

her  mother's,  the  eyes  dark  and  full  of  fire,  the  neck 
most  daintily  white  and  slender,  the  figure  undeveloped, 
the  feet  and  hands  extremely  small.  But  what  arrested 
him  was,  so  to  speak,  the  embodied  contradiction  of  the 
personality  —  as  between  the  wild  intelligence  of  the 
eyes  and  the  extreme  youth,  almost  childishness,  of  the 
rest. 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  known  any  one  confess 
to  being  easy  to  know. 

"  Well,  I'm  easy  to  know,"  she  said,  carelessly,  leaning 
back;  "but,  then,  I'm  not  worth  knowing." 

"Is  one  allowed  to  find  out?" 

"Oh  yes — of  course!  Do  you  know — when  you  were 
over  there,  I  milled  that  you  should  come  and  talk  to  me, 
and  you  came.  Only,"  she  sat  up  with  animation,  and 
began  to  tick  off  her  sentences  on  her  fingers — "  Don't  ask 
me  how  long  I've  been  in  town.  Don't  ask  where  I  was 
in  Paris.  Don't  inquire  whether  I  like  balls!  You  see,  I 
warn  you  at  once" — she  looked  up  frankly — "that  we 
mayn't  lose  time." 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  see  how  I'm  ever  to  find  out,"  said 
Ashe,  stoutl5\ 

"Whether  I'm  worth  knowing?"  She  considered, 
then  bent  forward  eagerly.  "Look  here!  I'll  just  tell  you 
everything  in  a  lump,  and  then  that  '11  do — won't  it? 
Listen.  I'm  just  eighteen.  I  was  sent  to  the  Soeurs 
Blanches  when  I  was  thirteen — the  year  papa  died.  I 
didn't  like  papa — I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  didn't!  How- 
ever, that's  by-the-way.  In  all  those  years  I  have  only 
seen  maman  once — she  doesn't  like  children.  But  my 
aunt  Grosville  has  some  French  relations — very,  very 
'comme  il  faut,'  you  understand — and  I  used  to  go  and 

25 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

stay  with  them  for  the  holidays.     Tell  me! — did  you 
ever  hunt  in  France?" 

"Never,"  said  Ashe,  startled  and  amused  by  the  sud- 
den glance  of  enthusiasm  that  lit  up  the  face  and  ex- 
pressed itself  in  the  clasped  hands. 

"Oh!  it's  such  heaven,"  she  said,  lifting  her  shoulders 
with  an  extravagant  gesture — "such  heaven  !  First  there 
are  the  old  dresses — the  men  look  such  darlings! — and 
then  the  horns,  and  the  old  ways  they  have — si  noble! — 
si  distingue! — not  like  your  stupid  English  hunting. 
And  then  the  dogs!  Ah!  the  dogs  " — the  shoulders  went 
higher  still;  "do  you  know  my  cousin  Henri  actually 
gave  me  a  puppy  of  the  great  breed — the  breed,  you 
know — the  Dogs  of  St.  Hubert.  Or  at  least  he  would 
if  maman  would  have  let  me  bring  it  over.  And  she 
wouldn't!  Just  think  of  that!  When  there  are  thou- 
sands of  people  in  France  who'd  give  the  eyes  out  of  their 
head  for  one.  I  cried  all  one  night — AUons! — faut  pas  y 
penser!" — she  shook  back  the  hair  from  her  eyes  with  an 
impatient  gesture.  "  My  cousins  have  got  a  chateau,  you 
know,  in  the  Seine-et-Oise.  They've  promised  to  ask  me 
next  year — when  the  Grand-Duke  Paul  comes — if  I'll 
promise  to  behave.  You  see,  I'm  not  a  bit  like  French 
girls — I  had  so  many  affairs!" 

Her  eyes  flashed  with  laughter. 

Ashe  laughed  too. 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  me  about  them  also?" 

She  drew  herself  up. 

"No!  I  play  fair,  always — ask  anybody!  Oh,  I  do 
want  to  go  back  to  France  so  badly!"  Once  more  she 
was  all  appeal  and  childishness.  "Anyway,  I  won't  stay 
in  England!     I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  that!" 

26 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"  How  long  has  it  taken  ?" 

"A  fortnight,"  she  said,  slowly — "just  a  fortnight." 

"That  hardly  seems  time  enough — does  it?"  said 
Ashe.     "Give  us  a  little  longer." 

"  No — I — I  hate  you!"  said  Lady  Kitty,  with  a  strange 
drop  in  her  voice.  Her  little  fingers  began  to  drum  on 
the  table  near  her,  and  to  Ashe's  intense  astonishment 
he  saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

Suddenly  a  movement  towards  the  other  room  set 
in  around  them.  Madame  d'Estrees  could  be  heard 
giving  directions.  A  space  was  made  in  the  large  draw- 
ing-room— a  little  table  appeared  in  it,  and  a  footman 
placed  thereon  a  glass  of  water. 

Lady  Kitty  looked  up. 

"Oh,  that  detestable  man!"  she  said,  drawing  back. 
"No — I  can't,  I  can't  bear  it.  Come  with  me!"  and 
beckoning  to  Ashe  she  fled  with  precipitation  into  the 
farther  part  of  the  inner  drawing-room,  out  of  her 
mother's  sight.  Ashe  followed  her,  and  she  dropped 
panting  and  elate  into  a  chair. 

Meanwhile  the  outer  room  gathered  to  hear  the 
recitation  of  some  vers  de  societe,  fondly  believed  by 
their  author  to  be  of  a  yery  pretty  and  Praedian  make. 
They  certainly  amused  the  company,  who  laughed  and 
clapped  .as  each  neat  personality  emerged.  Lady  Kitty 
passed  the  time  either  in  a  running  commentary  on 
the  reciter,  which  occasionally  convulsed  her  com- 
panion, or  else  in  holding  her  small  hands  over  her 
ears. 

When  it  was  over,  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"How  maman  can!  Oh!  how  bete  you  English  are 
to  applaud  such  a  man!  You  have  only  one  poet, 
i  27 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

haven't  you — one  living  poet  ?     Ah!    I  shouldn't  have 
laughed  if  it  had  been  he!" 

"I  suppose  you  mean  Geoffrey  Cliffe?"  said  Ashe, 
amused.  "  Nobody  abroad  seems  ever  to  have  heard 
of  any  one  else." 

"Well,  of  course,  I  just  long  to  know  him!  Every 
one  says  he  is  so  dangerous! — he  makes  all  the  women 
fall  in  love  with  him.  That's  delicious!  He  shouldn't 
make  me!     Do  you  know  him?" 

"  I  knew  him  at  Eton.  We  were  '  swished  '  together," 
said  Ashe. 

She  inquired  what  the  phrase  might  mean,  and  when 
informed,  flushed  hotly,  denouncing  the  English  school 
system  as  quite  unfit  for  gentlemen  and  men  of  honor. 
Her  French  cousins  would  sooner  die  than  suffer  such 
a  thing.  Then  in  the  midst  of  her  tirade  she  suddenly 
paused,  and  fixing  Ashe  with  her  brilliant  eyes,  she  asked 
him  a  surprising  question,  in  a  changed  and  steady  voice: 

"Is  Lady  Tranmore  not  well?" 

Ashe  was  fairly  startled. 

"Thank  you,  I  left  her  quite  well.     Have  you — " 

"Did  maman  ask  her  to  come  to-night?" 

It  was  Ashe's  turn  to  redden. 

"I  don't  know.  But — ^we  are  in  mourning,  you  see, 
for  my  brother." 

Her  face  changed  and  softened  instantly. 

"Are  you?  I'm  so  sorry.  I — I  always  say  some- 
thing stupid.  Then — Lady  Tranmore  used  to  come  to 
maman's  parties — before — " 

She  had  grown  quite  pale;  it  seemed  to  him  that  her 
hand  shook.  Ashe  felt  an  extraordinary  pang  of  pity 
and  concern. 

28 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"  It's  I,  you  see,  to  whom  your  mother  has  been  kind," 
he  said,  gently.  "  We're  an  independent  family  j-we  each 
make  our  own  friends." 

"No — "  she  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  "No,  it's 
not  that.     Look  at  that  room." 

Following  her  slight  gesture,  Ashe  looked.  It  was  an 
old,  low-ceiled  room,  panelled  in  white  and  gold,  showing 
here  and  there  an  Italian  picture — saint,  or  holy  family, 
agreeable  school-work — from  which  might  be  inferred 
the  tastes  if  not  the  expertise  of  Madame  d'Estrees'  first 
husband.  Lord  Blackwater.  The  floor  was  held  by  a 
plentiful  collection  of  seats,  neither  too  easy  nor  too  stiff; 
arranged  by  one  who  understood  to  perfection  the  physi- 
cal conditions  at  least  which  should  surround  the  "great 
art"  of  conversation.  At  this  moment  every  seat  was 
full.  A  sea  of  black  coats  overflowed  on  the  farther  side, 
into  the  staircase  landing,  where  through  the  open  door 
several  standing  groups  could  be  seen;  and  in  the  inner 
room,  where  they  sat,  there  was  but  little  space  between 
its  margin  and  themselves.  It  was  a  remarkable  sight; 
and  in  his  past  visits  to  the  house  Ashe  had  often  said  to 
himself  that  the  elements  of  which  it  was  made  up  were 
still  more  remarkable.  Ministers  and  Opposition;  am- 
bassadors, travellers,  journalists;  the  men  of  fashion 
and  the  men  of  reform;  here  a  French  republican  offi- 
cial, and  beyond  him,  perhaps,  a  man  whose  ancestors 
were  already  of  the  most  ancient  noblesse  in  Saint- 
Simon's  day;  artists,  great  and  small,  men  of  letters 
good  and  indifferent;  all  these  had  been  among  the 
guests  of  Madame  d'Estrees,  brought  to  the  house,  each 
of  them,  for  some  quality's  sake,  some  power  of  keeping 
up  the  social  game. 

29 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

But  now,  as  he  looked  at  the  room,  not  to  please 
himself  but  to  obey  Lady  Kitty,  Ashe  became  aware  of 
a  new  impression.  The  crowd  was  no  less,  numerically, 
than  he  had  seen  it  in  the  early  winter ;  but  it  seemed  to 
him  less  distinguished,  made  up  of  coarser  and  commoner 
items.  He  caught  the  face  of  a  shady  financier  long 
since  banished  from  Lady  Tranmore's  parties;  beyond 
him  a  red-faced  colonel,  conspicuous  alike  for  doubtful 
money-matters  and  matrimonial  trouble ;  and  in  a  farther 
corner  the  sallow  profile  of  a  writer  whose  books  were 
apt  to  rouse  even  the  man  of  the  world  to  a  healthy  and 
contemptuous  disgust.  Surely  these  persons  had  never 
been  there  of  old;  he  could  not  remember  one  of  them. 

He  looked  again,  more  closely.  Was  it  fancy,  or  was 
the  gathering  itself  aware  of  the  change  which  had  passed 
over  it  ?  As  a  whole,  it  was  certainly  noisier  than  of  old ; 
the  shouting  and  laughter  were  incessant.  But  within 
the  general  uproar  certain  groups  had  separated  from 
other  groups,  and  were  talking  with  a  studied  quiet. 
Most  of  the  habitues  were  still  there ;  but  they  held  them- 
selves apart  from  their  neighbors.  Were  the  old  inti- 
macy and  solidarity  beginning  to  break  up  ? — and  with 
them  the  peculiar  charm  of  these  "evenings,"  a  charm 
which  had  so  far  defied  a  social  boycott  that  had  been 
active  from  the  first? 

He  glanced  back  uncertainly  at  Lady  Kitty,  and  she 
looked  at  him. 

"Why  are  there  no  ladies?"  she  said,  abruptly. 

He  collected  his  thoughts. 

"  It — it  has  always  been  a  men's  gathering.  Perhaps 
for  some  men  here — I'm  sorry  there  are  such  barbarians. 
Lady  Kitty ! — that  makes  the  charm  of  it.     Look  at  that 

30 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

old  fellow  there !  He  is  a  most  famous  old  boy.  Every- 
body invites  him — but  he  never  stirs  out  of  his  den  but 
to  come  here.  My  mother  can't  get  him — though  she 
has  tried  often." 

And  he  pointed  to  a  dishevelled,  gray-haired  gentle- 
man, short  in  stature,  round  in  figure,  something,  in 
short,  like  an  animated  egg,  who  was  addressing  a  group 
not  far  off. 

Lady  Kitty's  face  showed  a  variety  of  expressions. 

"Are  there  many  parties  like  this  in  London?  Are 
the  ladies  asked,  and  don't  come  ?  I — I  don't — under- 
stand!" 

Ashe  looked  at  her  kindly. 

"There  is  no  other  hostess  in  London  as  clever  as  your 
mother,"  he  declared,  and  then  tried  to  change  the  sub- 
ject; but  she  paid  no  heed. 

"The  other  day,  at  Aunt  Grosville's,"  she  said,  slowly, 
"I  asked  if  my  two  cousins  might  come  to-night,  and 
they  looked  at  me  as  though  I  were  mad!  Oh,  do  talk  to 
me!"  She  came  impulsively  nearer,  and  Ashe  noticed 
that  Darrell,  standing  against  the  doorway  of  com- 
munication, looked  round  at  them  in  amusement.  "I 
liked  your  face — the  very  first  moment  when  I  saw  you 
across  the  room.  Do  you  know — you're — you're  very 
handsome!"  She  drew  back,  her  eyes  fixed  gravely, 
intently  upon  him. 

For  the  first  time  Ashe  was  conscious  of  annoyance. 

"I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  saying  so" — his  tone  was 
a  little  short — "but  in  this  country  we  don't  say  those 
things.     They're  not — quite  polite." 

"  Aren't  they  ?"  Her  eyebrows  arched  themselves  and 
her  lips  fell  in  penitence.     "I  always  called  my  French 

31 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

cousin,  Henri  la  Fresnay,  beau!  I  am  sure  he  liked  it!" 
The  accent  was  almost  plaintive. 

Ashe's  natural  impulse  was  to  say  that  if  so  the  French 
cousin  must  be  an  ass.  But  all  in  a  moment  he  found 
himself  seized  with  a  desire  to  take  her  little  hands  in 
his  own  and  press  them — she  looked  such  a  child,  so 
exquisite,  and  so  forlorn.  And  he  did  in  fact  bend 
forward  confidentially,  forgetting  Darrell. 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  see  my  mother?"  he  said, 
smiling  at  her.     "Ask  Lady  Grosville  to  bring  you." 

"May  I?  But — "  She  searched  his  face,  eager  still 
to  pour  out  the  impulsive,  uncontrolled  confidences  that 
were  in  her  mind.  But  his  expression  stopped  her,  and 
she  gave  a  little,  resentful  sigh. 

"Yes — I'll  come.  We — you  and  I — are  a  little  bit 
cousins  too — aren't  we  ?  We  talked  about  you  at  the 
Grosvilles." 

"Was  our  'great-great'  the  same  person?"  he  said, 
laughing.  "Hope  it  was  a  decent  'great-great.'  Some 
of  mine  aren't  much  to  boast  of.  Well,  at  any  rate,  let's 
be  cousins — whether  we  are  or  no,  shall  we?" 

She  assented,  her  whole  face  lighting  up. 

"And  we're  going  to  meet — the  week  after  next!"  she 
said,  triumphantly,  "in  the  country." 

"Are  we?— at  Grosville  Park.     That's  delightful." 

"And  then  I'll  ask  your  advice — I'll  make  you  tell  me 
— a  hundred  things!     That's  a  bargain — ^mind!" 

"Kitty!  Come  and  help  me  with  tea — there's  a  dar- 
ling!" 

Lady  Kitty  turned.  A  path  had  opened  through  the 
crowd,  and  Madame  d'Estr^es,  much  escorted,  a  vision  of 
diamonds  and  pale-pink  satin,  appeared,  leading  the  way 

32 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

to  the  supper-room,  and  the  light  "refection,"  accom- 
panied by  much  champagne,  which  always  closed  these 
evenings. 

The  girl  rose,  as  did  her  companion  also.  Madame 
d'Estrees  threw  a  quick,  half -satirical  glance  at  Ashe,  but 
he  had  eyes  only  for  Lady  Kitty,  and  her  transformation 
at  the  touch  of  her  mother's  voice.  She  followed  Ma- 
dame d'Estrees  with  a  singular  and  conscious  dignity,  her 
white  skirts  sweeping,  her  delicately  fine  head  thrown 
back  on  her  thin  neck  and  shoulders.  The  black  crowd 
closed  about  her;  and  Ashe's  eyes  pursued  the  slender 
figure  till  it  disappeared. 

Extreme  youth — innocence — protest — pain — was  it 
with  these  touching  and  pleading  impressions,  after  all, 
that  his  first  talk  with  Kitty  Bristol  had  left  him?  Yet 
what  a  little  etourdie!  How  lacking  in  the  reserves,  the 
natural  instincts  and  shrinkings  of  the  well-bred  Eng- 
lish girl! 

Darrell  and  Ashe  walked  home  together,  through  a 
windy  night  which  was  bringing  out  April  scents  even 
from  the  London  grass  and  lilac-bushes. 

"Well,"  said  Darrell,  as  they  stepped  into  the  Green 
Park,  "so  you're  safely  in.  Congratulate  you,  old  fellow. 
Anything  else?" 

"Yes.  They've  offered  me  Hickson's  place.  More 
fools  they,  don't  you  think?" 

"  Good!  Upon  my  word.  Bill,  you've  got  your  foot  in 
the  stirrup  now!  Hope  you'll  continue  to  be  civil  to 
poor  devils  like  me." 

The  speaker  looked  up  smiling,  but  neither  the  tone 
nor  the  smile  was  really  cordial.      Ashe   felt  the   em- 

2>?> 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

barrassment  that  he  had  once  or  twice  felt  before  in 
telHng  Darrell  news  of  good  fortune.  There  seemed  to 
be  something  in  Darrell  that  resented  it- — under  an  outer 
show  of  felicitation. 

However,  they  went  on  talking  of  the  political  mo- 
ment and  its  prospects,  and  of  Ashe's  personal  affairs. 
As  to  the  last,  Darrell  questioned,  and  Ashe  somewhat 
reluctantly  replied.  It  appeared  that  his  allowance  was 
to  be  largely  raised,  that  his  paralyzed  father,  in  fact, 
was  anxious  to  put  him  in  possession  of  a  substantial 
share  in  the  income  of  the  estates,  that  one  of  the  coun- 
try-houses was  to  be  made  over  to  him,  and  so  on. 

"Which  means,  of  course,  that  they  want  you  to 
marry,"  said  Darrell.  "Well,  you've  only  to  throw  the 
handkerchief." 

They  were  passing  a  lamp  as  he  spoke,  and  the  light 
shone  on  his  long,  pale  face — a  face  of  discontent — with 
its  large  sunken  eyes  and  hollow  cheeks. 

Ashe  treated  the  remark  as  "rot,"  and  endeavored  to 
get  away  from  his  own  affairs  by  discussing  the  party 
they  had  just  left. 

"How  does  she  get  all  those  people  together?  It's 
astonishing  !" 

"  Well,  I  always  liked  Madame  d'Estrees  well  enough," 
said  Darrell,  "but,  upon  my  word,  she  has  done  a  beastly 
mean  thing  in  bringing  that  girl  over." 

"You  mean?"— Ashe  hesitated— " that  her  own  posi- 
tion is  too  doubtful?" 

"Doubtful,  my  dear  fellow!"  Darrell  laughed  un- 
pleasantly. "I  never  really  understood  what  it  all 
meant  till  the  other  night  when  old  Lady  Grosville  took 
and  told  me — more  at  any  rate  than  I  knew  before. 

34 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  Grosvilles  are  on  the  war-path,  and  they  regard  the 
coming  of  this  poor  child  as  the  last  straw." 

"Why?"  said  Ashe. 

Darrell  gave  a  shrug.  "Well,  you  know  the  story  of 
Madame  d'Estrees'  step-daughter  —  old  Blackwater's 
daughter?" 

"Ah!  by  his  first  marriage?  I  knew  it  was  some- 
thing about  the  step-daughter,"  said  Ashe,  vaguely. 

Darrell  began  to  repeat  his  conversation  with  Lady 
Grosville.  The  tale  threatened  presently  to  become  a 
black  one  indeed;  and  at  last  Ashe  stood  still  in  the 
broad  walk  crossing  the  Green  Park. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  resolutely,  "don't  tell  me  any 
more.     I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more." 

"Why?"  asked  Darrell,  in  amazement. 

"Because" — Ashe  hesitated  a  moment.  "Well,  I 
don't  want  it  to  be  made  impossible  for  me  to  go  to 
Madame  d'Estrees'  again.  Besides,  we've  just  eaten 
her  salt." 

"You're  a  good  friend!"  said  Darrell,  not  without 
something  of  a  sneer. 

Ashe  was  ruffled  by  the  tone,  but  tried  not  to  show  it. 
He  merely  insisted  that  he  knew  Lady  Grosville  to  be 
a  bit  of  an  old  cat;  that  of  course  there  was  some- 
thing up ;  but  it  seemed  a  shame  for  those  at  least  who 
accepted  Madame  d'Estrees'  hospitality  to  believe  the 
worst.  There  was  a  curious  mixture  of  carelessness  and 
delicacy  in  his  remarks,  very  characteristic  of  the  man. 
It  appeared  as  though  he  was  at  once  too  indolent  to  go 
into  the  matter,  and  too  chivalrous  to  talk  about  it. 

Darrell  presently  maintained  a  rather  angry  silence. 
No  man  likes  to  be  checked  in  his  story,  especially  when 

35 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

the  check  impHes  something  hke  a  snub  from  his  best 
friend.  Suddenly,  memory  brought  before  him  the  httle 
picture  of  Ashe  and  Lady  Kitty  together — he  bending 
over  her,  in  his  large,  handsome  geniality,  and  she  look- 
ing up.  Darrell  felt  a  twinge  of  jealousy — then  disgust. 
Really,  men  like  Ashe  had  the  world  too  easily  their 
own  way.  That  they  should  pose,  besides,  was  too 
much. 


Ill 


x\THER  more  than  a  fortnight  after  the  evening  at 
Madame  d'Estrees',  WilHam  Ashe  found  himself  in 
a  Midland  train  on  his  way  to  the  Cambridgeshire  house 
of  Lady  Grosville.  While  the  April  country  slipped  past 
him — like  some  blanched  face  to  which  life  and  color 
are  returning — Ashe  divided  his  time  between  an  idle 
skimming  of  the  Saturday  papers  and  a  no  less  idle 
dreaming  of  Kitty  Bristol.  He  had  seen  her  two  or 
three  times  since  his  first  introduction  to  her— once  at  a 
ball  to  which  Lady  Grosville  had  taken  her,  and  once  on 
the  terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons,  where  he  had 
strolled  up  and  down  with  her  for  a  most  amusing  and 
stimulating  hour,  while  her  mother  entertained  a  group 
of  elderly  politicians.  And  the  following  day  she  had 
come  alone — her  own  choice — to  take  tea  with  Lady 
Tranmore,  on  that  lady's  invitation,  as  prompted  by  her 
son.  Ashe  himself  had  arrived  towards  the  end  of  the 
visit,  and  had  found  a  Lady  Kitty  in  the  height  of  the 
fashion,  stiff  mannered,  and  flushed  to  a  deep  red  by 
her  own  consciousness  that  she  could  not  possibly  be 
making  a  good  impression.  At  sight  of  him  she  relaxed, 
and  talked  a  great  deal,  but  not  wisely;  and  when  she 
was  gone,  Ashe  could  get  very  little  opinion  of  any  kind 
from  his  mother,  who  had,  however,  expressed  a  wish 
that  she  should  come  and  visit  them  in  the  country. 

37 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Since  then  he  frankly  confessed  to  himself  that  in  the 
intervals  of  his  new  official  and  administrative  work  he 
had  been  a  good  deal  haunted  by  memories  of  this  strange 
child,  her  eyes,  her  grace — even  in  her  fits  of  proud  shy- 
ness— and  the  way  in  which,  as  he  had  put  her  into  her 
cab  after  the  visit  to  Lady  Tranmore,  her  tiny  hand 
had  lingered  in  his,  a  mute,  astonishing  appeal.  Haunted, 
too,  by  what  he  heard  of  her  fortunes  and  surroundings. 
What  was  the  real  truth  of  Madame  d'Estrees'  situation  ? 
During  the  preceding  weeks  some  ugly  rumors  had 
reached  Ashe  of  financial  embarrassment  in  that  quarter, 
of  debts  risen  to  mountainous  height,  of  crisis  and  pos- 
sible disappearance.  Then  these  rumors  were  met  by 
others,  to  the  effect  that  Colonel  Warington,  the  old 
friend  and  support  of  the  D'Estrees'  household,  had 
come  to  the  rescue,  that  the  crisis  had  been  averted, 
and  that  the  three  weekly  evenings,  so  well  known  and 
so  well  attended,  would  go  on;  and  with  this  phase  of 
the  story  there  mingled,  as  Ashe  was  well  aware,  not 
the  slightest  breath  of  scandal,  in  a  case  where,  so  to 
speak,  all  was  scandal. 

And  meanwhile  what  new  and  dolorous  truths  had 
Lady  Kitty  been  learning  as  to  her  mother's  history 
and  her  mother's  position?  By  Jove!  it  was  hard  upon 
the  girl.  Darrell  was  right.  Why  not  leave  her  to  her 
French  friends  and  relations? — or  relinquish  her  to 
Lady  Grosville?  Madame  d'Estrees  had  seen  little  or 
nothing  of  her  for  years.  She  could  not,  therefore,  be 
necessary  to  her  mother's  happiness,  and  there  was  a 
real  cruelty  in  thus  claiming  her,  at  the  very  moment  of 
her  entrance  into  society,  where  Madame  d'Estrees  could 
only   stand   in   her  way.     For   although   many   a  man 

38 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

whom  the  girl  might  profitably  marry  was  to  be  found 
among  the  mother's  guests,  the  influences  of  Madame 
d'Estrees'  "evenings"  were  certainly  not  matrimonial. 
Still  the  unforeseen  was  surely  the  probable  in  Lady 
Kitty's  case.  What  sort  of  man  ought  she  to  marry — 
what  sort  of  man  could  safely  take  the  risks  of  marrying 
her — with  that  mother  in  the  background  ? 

He  descended  at  the  way-side  station  prescribed  to 
him,  and  looked  round  him  for  fellow-guests—much  as 
the  card-player  examines  his  hand.  Mary  Lyster,  a 
cabinet  minister — filling  an  ornamental  office  and  hand- 
ed on  from  ministry  to  ministry  as  a  kind  of  necessary 
appendage,  the  public  never  knew  why — the  minister's 
second  wife,  an  attache  from  the  Austrian  embassy, 
two  members  of  Parliament,  and  a  well-known  journal- 
ist— Ashe  said  to  himself  flippantly  that  so  far  the 
trumps  were  not  many.  But  he  was  always  reasonably 
glad  to  see  Mary,  and  he  went  up  to  her,  cared  for  her 
bag,  and  made  her  put  on  her  cloak,  with  cousinly 
civility.  In  the  omnibus  on  the  way  to  the  house  he 
and  Mary  gossiped  in  a  corner,  while  the  cabinet  min- 
ister and  the  editor  went  to  sleep,  and  the  two  members 
of  Parliament  practised  some  courageous  French  on  the 
Austrian  attache. 

"  Is  it  to  be  a  large  party  ?"  he  asked  of  his  companion. 

"Oh!  they  always  fill  the  house.  A  good  many  came 
down  yesterday." 

"Well,  I'm  not  curious,"  said  Ashe,  "except  as  to 
one  person." 

"Who?" 

"Lady  Kitty  Bristol." 

Mary  Lyster  smiled. 

39 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Yes,  poor  child,  I  heard  from  the  Grosville  girls  that 
she  was  to  be  here." 

"Why  'poor  child'?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Quite  the  wrong  expression,  I  admit. 
It  should  be  'poor  hostess.'" 

"Oh! — the  Grosvilles  complain?" 

"No.  They're  only  on  tenter  -  hooks.  They  never 
know  what  she  will  do  next." 

"How  good  for  the  Grosvilles!" 

"You  think  society  is  the  better  for  shocks?" 

"Lady  Grosville  can  do  with  them,  anyway.  What 
a  masterful  woman!     But  I'll  back  Lady  Kitty." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  yet,"  said  Mary.  "  I  hear  she  is  a 
very  odd-looking  little  thing." 

"Extremely  pretty,"  said  Ashe. 

"  Really  ?"  Mary  lifted  incredulous  eyebrows.  "  Well, 
now  I  shall  know  what  you  admire." 

"Oh,  my  tastes  are  horribly  catholic — I  admire  so 
many  people,"  said  Ashe,  with  a  glance  at  the  well- 
dressed  elegance  beside  him.  Mary  colored  a  little, 
unseen;  and  the  rattle  of  the  carriage  as  it  entered  the 
covered  porch  of  Grosville  Park  cut  short  their  con- 
versation, 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  got  in,"  said  Lady  Grosville,  in 
her  full,  loud  voice,  "because  we  are  connections.  But 
of  course  I  regard  the  loss  of  a  seat  to  our  side  just  now 
as  a  great  disaster." 

"Very  grasping,  on  your  part!"  said  Ashe.  "You've 
had  it  all  your  own  way  lately.     Think  of  Portsmouth!" 

Lady  Grosville,  however,  as  she  met  his  bantering 
look,  did  not  find  herself  at  all  inclined  to  think  of  Ports- 

40 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

mouth.  She  was  much  more  inclined  to  think  of  WiUiam 
Ashe.  What  a  good-looking  fellow  he  had  grown!  She 
heaved  an  inward  sigh,  of  mingled  envy  and  apprecia- 
tion, directed  towards  Lady  Tranmore. 

Poor  Susan  indeed  had  suffered  terribly  in  the  death 
of  her  eldest  son.  But  the  handsomer  and  abler  of  the 
two  brothers  still  remained  to  her — and  the  estate  was 
safe.  Lady  Grosville  thought  of  her  own  three  daugh- 
ters, plain  and  almost  dowerless;  and  of  that  conceited 
young  man,  the  heir,  whom  she  could  hardly  persuade 
her  husband  to  invite,  once  a  year,  for  appearance  sake. 

"Why  are  we  so  early?"  said  Ashe,  looking  at  his 
watch.     "I  thought  I  should  be  disgracefully  late." 

For  he  and  Lady  Grosville  had  the  library  to  them- 
selves. It  was  a  fine,  book  -  walled  room,  with  giallo 
antico  columns  and  Adam  decoration;  and  in  its  richly 
colored  lamp-lit  space,  the  seated  figure — stiffly  erect — 
of  Lady  Grosville,  her  profile,  said  by  some  to  be  like  a 
horse  and  by  others  to  resemble  Savonarola,  the  cap  of 
old  Venice  point  that  crowned  her  grizzled  hair,  her 
black  velvet  dress,  and  the  long-fingered,  ugly,  yet  dis- 
tinguished hands  which  lay  upon  her  lap,  told  signifi- 
cantly; especially  when  contrasted  with  the  negligent 
ease  and  fresh-colored  youth  of  her  companion. 

Grosville  Park  was  rich  in  second-rate  antiques;  and 
there  was  a  Greco-Roman  head  above  the  bookcase 
with  which  Ashe  had  been  often  compared.  As  he  stood 
now  leaning  against  the  fireplace,  the  close-piled  curls, 
and  eyes — somewhat  "  a  fleur  de  tete" — of  the  bust  were 
undoubtedly  repeated  with  some  closeness  in  the  living 
man.  Those  whom  he  had  offended  by  some  social 
carelessness  or  other  said  of  him  when  they  wished  to 

41 


The   Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

run  him  down,  that  he  was  "floridly"  handsome;  and 
there  was  some  truth  in  it. 

"Didn't  you  get  the  message  about  dinner?"  said 
Lady  Grosville.  Then,  as  he  shook  his  head:  "Very 
remiss  of  Parkin.  I  always  tell  him  he  loses  his  head 
directly  the  party  goes  into  double  figures.  We  had  to 
put  off  dinner  a  quarter  of  an  hour  because  of  Kitty 
Bristol,  who  missed  her  train  at  St.  Pancras,  and  only 
arrived  half  an  hour  ago.  By-the-way,  I  suppose  you 
have  already  seen  her — at  that  woman's?" 

"  I  met  her  a  week  or  two  ago,  at  Madame  d'Estrees', " 
said  Ashe,  apparently  preoccupied  with  something  wrong 
in  the  set  of  his  white  waistcoat. 

"What  did  you  think  of  her?" 

"A  charming  young  lady,"  said  Ashe,  smiling.  "  What 
else  should  I  think?" 

"A  lamb  thrown  to  the  wolves,"  said  Lady  Grosville, 
grimly.     "How  that  woman  could  do  such  a  thing!" 

"I  saw  nothing  lamblike  about  Lady  Kitty,"  said 
Ashe.     "And  do  you  include  me  among  the  wolves?" 

Lady  Grosville  hesitated  a  moment,  then  stuck  to  her 
colors. 

"You  shouldn't  go  to  such  a  house,"  she  said,  boldly 
— "I  suppose  I  may  say  that  without  offence,  William, 
as  I've  known  you  from  a  boy." 

"  Say  anything  you  like,  my  dear  Lady  Grosville!  So 
you — believe  evil  things — of  Madame  d'Estrees?" 

His  tone  was  light,  but  his  eyes  sought  the  distant 
door,  as  though  invoking  some  fellow-guest  to  appear 
and  protect  him. 

Lady  Grosville  did  not  answer.  Ashe's  look  returned 
to  her,  and  he  was  startled  by  the  expression  of  her  face. 

42 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

He  had  always  known  and  unwillingly  admired  her  for  a 
fine  Old  Testament  Christian,  one  from  whom  the  lan- 
guage of  the  imprecatory  Psalms  with  regard  to  her 
enemies,  personal  and  political,  might  have  flowed  more 
naturally  than  from  any  other  person  he  knew,  of  the 
same  class  and  breeding.  But  this  loathing — this  pas- 
sion of  contempt — this  heat  of  memory! — these  were 
new  indeed,  and  the  fire  of  them  transfigured  the  old, 
gray  face. 

"I  have  known  a  fair  number  of  bad  people,"  said 
Lady  Grosville,  in  a  low  voice — "  and  a  good  many  wick- 
ed women.  But  for  meanness  and  vileness  combined, 
the  things  I  know  of  the  woman  who  was  Blackwater's 
wife  have  no  equal  in  my  experience!" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then  Ashe  said,  in  a 
voice  as  serious  as  her  own: 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,  partly  because  I 
like  Madame  d'Estrees,  and  partly — because — I  was 
particularly  attracted  by  Lady  Kitty." 

Lady  Grosville  looked  up  sharply.  "  Don't  marry  her, 
William! — don't  marry  her!     She  comes  of  a  bad  stock." 

Ashe  recovered  his  ga37^ety. 

"She  is  your  own  niece.  Mightn't  a  man  dare — on 
that  guarantee?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Lady  Grosville,  unappeased.  "I 
was  a  hop  out  of  kin.  Besides — a  Methodist  governess 
saved  me;  she  converted  me,  at  eighteen,  and  I  owe  her 
everything.  But  my  brothers — and  all  the  rest  of  us!" 
She  threw  up  her  eyes  and  hands.  "  What's  the  good  of 
being  mealy  mouthed  about  it  ?  All  the  world  knows  it. 
A  good  many  of  us  were  mad — and  I  sometimes  think  I 
see  more  than  eccentricity  in  Kitty." 
4  43 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Who  was  Madame  d'Estrdes?"  said  Ashe.  Why 
should  he  wince  so  at  the  girl's  name? — in  that  hard 
mouth  ? 

Lady  Grosville  smiled. 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you  a  good  deal  about  that,"  she  said. 
"Ah! — another  time!" 

For  the  door  opened,  and  in  came  a  group  of  guests, 
with  a  gush  of  talk  and  a  rustling  of  silks  and  satins. 

Everybody  was  gathered;  dinner  had  been  announced; 
and  the  white-haired  and  gouty  Lord  Grosville  was  in  a 
state  of  seething  impatience  that  not  even  the  mild- 
voiced  Dean  of  the  neighboring  cathedral,  engaged  in 
complimenting  him  on  his  speech  at  the  Diocesan  Con- 
ference, could  restrain. 

"Adelina,  need  we  wait  any  longer?"  said  the  master 
of  the  house,  turning  an  angry  eye  upon  his  wife. 

"Certainly  not — she  has  had  ample  time,"  said  Lady 
Grosville,  and  rang  the  bell  beside  her. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  whirlwind  of  noise  in  the  hall, 
the  angry  barking  of  a  small  dog,  the  sound  of  a  girl's 
voice  laughing  and  scolding,  the  swish  of  silk  skirts.  A 
scandalized  butler,  obeying  Lady  Grosville's  summons, 
threw  the  door  open,  and  in  burst  Lady  Kitty. 

"Oh!  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  the  new-comer,  in  a  tone  of 
despair.  "But  I  couldn't  leave  him  up-stairs,  Aun. 
Lina!  He'd  eaten  one  of  my  shoes,  and  begun  upon  the 
other.  And  Julie's  afraid  of  him.  He  bit  her  last  week. 
May  he  sit  on  my  knee  ?     I  know  I  can  keep  him  quiet!" 

Every  conversation  in  the  library  stopped.  Twenty 
amazed  persons  turned  to  look.  They  beheld  a  slim  girl 
in  white  at  the  far  end  of  the  large  room  struggling  with 

44 


A    SLIM    GIRL    IX     WHITE    AT    THE    FAR    END    OF    THE    LARGE 
ROOM  " 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

a  gray  terrier  puppy  which  she  held  under  her  left  arm, 
and  turning  appealing  eyes  towards  Lady  Grosville.  The 
dog,  half  frightened,  half  fierce,  was  barking  furiously. 
Lady  Kitty's  voice  could  hardly  be  heard  through  the 
din,  and  she  was  crimson  with  the  effort  to  control  her 
charge.  Her  lips  laughed;  her  eyes  implored.  And  to 
add  to  the  effect  of  the  apparition,  a  marked  strangeness 
of  dress  was  at  once  perceived  by  all  the  English  eyes 
turned  upon  her.  Lady  Kitty  was  robed  in  the  extreme 
of  French  fashion,  which  at  that  moment  was  a  fashion 
of  flounces ;  she  was  much  dccolletee;  and  her  fair,  abun- 
dant hair,  carried  to  a  great  height,  and  arranged  with  a 
certain  calculated  wildness  around  her  small  face,  was 
surmounted  by  a  large  scarlet  butterfly  which  shone  de- 
fiantly against  the  dark  background  of  books. 

"Kitty!"  said  Lady  Grosville,  advancing  indignantly, 
"what  a  dreadful  noise!  Pray  give  the  dog  to  Parkin  at 
once." 

Lady  Kitty  only  held  the  struggling  animal  tighter. 

"Please,  Aunt  Lina!— I'm  afraid  he'll  bite!  But  he'll 
be  quite  good  with  me." 

"  Why  did  you  bring  him,  Kitty  ?  We  can't  have 
such  a  creature  at  dinner!"  said  Lady  Grosville,  an- 
grily. 

Lord  Grosville  advanced  behind  his  wife. 

"How  do  you  do,  Kitty?  Hadn't  you  better  put 
down  the  dog  and  come  and  be  introduced  to  Mr.  Ran- 
kine,  who  is  to  take  you  in  to  dinner?" 

Lady  Kitty  shook  her  fair  head,  but  advanced,  still 
clinging  to  the  dog,  gave  a  smile  and  a  nod  to  Ashe,  and 
a  bow  to  the  young  Tory  member  presented  to  her. 

"  You  don't  mind  him  ?"  she  said,  a  flash  of  laughter  in 

45 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

her  dark  eyes.     "We'll  manage  him  between  us,  won't 
we?" 

The  young  man,  dazzled  by  her  prettiness  and  her 
strangeness,  murmured  a  hopeful  assent.  Lord  Grosville, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  determined  on  dinner  though  the 
skies  fall,  offered  his  arm  to  Lady  Edith  Manley,  the  wife 
of  the  cabinet  minister,  and  made  for  the  dining-room. 
The  stream  of  guests  followed ;  when  suddenly  the  pup- 
py, perceiving  on  the  floor  a  ball  of  wool  which  had 
rolled  out  of  Lady  Grosville's  work-table,  escaped  in  an 
ecstasy  of  mischief  from  his  mistress's  arm  and  flew 
upon  the  ball.  Kitty  rushed  after  him;  the  wool  first 
unrolled,  then  caught;  the  table  overturned  and  all  its 
contents  were  flung  pell-mell  in  the  path  of  Lady  Gros- 
ville, who,  on  the  arm  of  the  amused  and  astonished 
minister,  was  waiting  in  restrained  fury  till  her  guests 
should  pass. 

"I  shall  never  get  over  this,"  said  Lady  Kitty,  as  she 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  still  panting,  and  quite  inca- 
pable of  eating  any  of  the  foods  that  were  being  offered 
to  her  in  quick  succession. 

",I  don't  know  that  you  deserve  to,"  said  Ashe,  turning 
a  face  upon  her  which  was  as  grave  as  he  could  make  it. 
The  attention  of  every  one  else  round  the  room  was  also 
in  truth  occupied  with  his  companion.  There  was,  in- 
deed, a  general  buzz  of  conversation  and  a  general  pre- 
tence that  Lady  Kitty's  proceedings  might  now  be  ig- 
nored. But  in  reality  every  guest,  male  or  female,  kept 
a  stealthy  watch  on  the  red  butterfly  and  the  sparkling 
face  beneath  it ;  and  Ashe  was  well  aware  of  it. 

"  I  vow  it  was  not  my  fault,"  said  Kitty,  with  dignity. 

46 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"1  was  not  allowed  to  have  the  dog  I  should  have  had. 
You'd  never  have  found  a  dog  of  St.  Hubert  condescend- 
ing to  bedroom  slippers!  But  as  I  had  to  have  a  dog — 
and  Colonel  Warington  gave  me  this  one  three  days  ago 
— and  he  has  already  ruined  half  maman's  things,  and 
no  one  could  manage  him  but  me,  I  just  had  to  bring 
him,  and  trust  to  Providence." 

"I  have  been  here  a  good  many  times,"  said  Ashe, 
"and  I  never  yet  saw  a  dog  in  the  sanctuary.  Do  you 
know  that  Pitt  once  wrote  a  speech  in  the  library.''" 

"Did  he?  I'm  sure  it  never  made  such  a  stir  as 
Ponto  did."  Kitty's  face  suddenly  broke  into  laughter, 
and  she  hid  it  a  moment  in  her  hands. 

"You  brazen  it  out,"  said  Ashe;  "but  how  are  you 
going  to  appease  Lady  Grosville?" 

Kitty  ceased  to  laugh.  She  drew  herself  up,  and 
looked  seriously,  observantly  at  her  aunt. 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  must  do  it  somehow.  I  don't 
want  any  more  worries." 

So  changed  were  her  tone  and  aspect  that  Ashe  turned 
a  friendly  examining  look  upon  her. 

"Have  you  been  worried?"  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  made  no  reply.  But 
presently  she  impatiently  reclaim.ed  his  attention,  snatch- 
ing him  from  the  lady  he  had  taken  in  to  dinner,  with 
no  scruple  at  all. 

"Will  you  come  a  walk  with  me  to-morrow  morning?" 

"Proud,"  said  Ashe.     "What  time?" 

"As  soon  as  we  can  get  rid  of  these  people,"  she  said, 
her  eye  running  round  the  table.  Then  as  it  paused  and 
lingered  on  the  face  of  I\Iary  Lyster  opposite,  she  abrupt- 
ly asked  him  who  that  lady  might  be. 

47 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Ashe  informed  her. 

"Your  cousin?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  a  sHght 
frown.  "  Your' cousin  ?  I  don't — well,  I  don't  think  I 
shall  like  her." 

"That's  a  great  pity,"  said  Ashe. 

"For  me?"  she  said,  distrustfully. 

"For  both,  of  course!  My  mother's  very  fond  of 
Miss  Lyster.     She's  often  with  us." 

"Oh!"  said  Kitty,  and  looked  again  at  the  face  oppo- 
site. Then  he  heard  her  say  behind  her  fan,  half  to 
herself  and  half  to  him: 

"She  does  not  interest  me  in  the  least!  She  has  no 
ideas!     I'm  sure  she  has  no  ideas.     Has  she?" 

She  turned  abruptly  to  Ashe. 

"Every  one  calls  her  very  clever." 

Kitty  looked  contempt. 

"That's  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It's  not  the  clever 
people  who  have  ideas." 

Ashe  bantered  her  a  little  on  the  meaning  of  her 
words,  till  he  presently  found  that  she  was  too  young 
and  unpractised  to  be  able  to  take  his  thrusts  and  return 
them,  with  equanimity.  She  could  make  a  daring  sally 
or  reply;  but  it  was  still  the  raw  material  of  conversa- 
tion; it  wanted  ease  and  polish.  And  she  was  evidently 
conscious  of  it  herself,  for  presently  her  cheek  flushed 
and  her  manner  wavered. 

"I  suppose  you — everybody — thinks  her  very  agree- 
able?" she  said,  sharply,  her  eyes  returning  to  Miss 
Lyster. 

"She  is  a  most  excellent  gossip,"  said  Ashe.  "I  al- 
ways go  to  her  for  the  news." 

Kitty  glanced  again. 

48 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"I  can  see  that  already  she  detests  me." 

"  In  half  an  hour?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"She  has  looked  at  me  twice — about.  But  she  has 
made  up  her  mind — and  she  never  changes."  Then  with 
an  abrupt  alteration  of  note  she  looked  round  the  room. 
"I  suppose  your  English  dining-rooms  are  all  like  this? 
One  might  be  sitting  in  a  hearse.  And  the  pictures — 
no!     Quelles  horretirsf" 

She  raised  her  shoulders  again  impetuously,  frowning 
at  a  huge  full  -  length  opposite  of  Lord  Grosville  as 
M.F.H.,  a  masterpiece  indeed  of  early  Victorian  vul- 
garity. 

Then  suddenly,  hastily,  with  that  flashing  softness 
which  so  often  transformed  her  expression,  she  turned 
towards  him,  trying  to  make  amends. 

"But  the  library — that  was  bien — ah!  tr-res,  tr-res 
bien!" 

Her  r's  rolled  a  little  as  she  spoke,  with  a  charming 
effect,  and  she  looked  at  him  radiantly,  as  though  to 
strike  and  to  make  amends  were  equally  her  prerogative, 
and  she  asked  no  man's  leave. 

"You've  not  yet  seen  what  there  is  to  see  here,"  said 
Ashe,  smiling.     "Look  behind  you." 

The  girl  turned  her  slim  neck  and  exclaimed.  For 
behind  Ashe's  chair  was  the  treasure  of  the  house.  It 
was  a  "  Dance  of  Children,"  by  one  of  the  most  famous  of 
the  eighteenth-century  masters.  From  the  dark  wall  it 
shone  out  with  a  flower-like  brilliance,  a  vision  of  color 
and  of  grace.  The  children  danced  through  a  golden  air, 
their  bodies  swaying  to  one  of  those  "unheard  melodies  " 
of  art,  sweeter  than  all  mortal  tunes;  their  delicate  faces 

49 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

alive  with  joy.  The  sky  and  grass  and  trees  seemed  to 
caress  them;  a  soft  sunHght  clothed  them;  and  flowers 
brushed  their  feet. 

Kitty  turned  back  again  and  was  silent.  Was  it 
Ashe's  fancy,  or  had  she  grown  pale? 

"Did  you  like  it?"  he  asked  her.  She  turned  to  him, 
and  for  the  second  time  in  their  acquaintance  he  saw 
her  eyes  floating  in  tears. 

"It  is  too  beautiful!"  she  said,  with  an  effort— almost 
an  angry  effort.     "I  don't  want  to  see  it  again." 

"I  thought  it  would  give  you  pleasure,"  said  Ashe, 
gently,  suddenly  conscious  of  a  hope  that  she  was  not 
aware  of  the  slight  look  of  amusement  with  which  Mary 
Lyster  was  contemplating  them  both. 

"So  it  did,"  said  Kitty,  furtively  applying  her  lace 
handkerchief  to  her  tears;  "but" — her  voice  dropped — 
"when  one's  unhappy — very  unhappy — things  like  that 
— things  like  Heaven — hurt!  Oh,  what  a  jool  I  am!" 
And  she  sat  straightly  up,  looking  round  her. 

There  was  a  pause;  then  Ashe  said,  in  another  voice: 

"Look  here,  you  know  this  won't  do.  I  thought  we 
were  to  be  cousins." 

"Well?"  said  Kitty,  indifferently,  not  looking  at 
him. 

"  And  I  understood  that  I  was  to  be  taken  into  respect- 
able cousinly  counsel?" 

"Well?"  said  Kitty  again,  crumbling  her  bread.  "I 
can't  do  it  here,  can  I?" 

Ashe  laughed. 

"Well,  anyhow,  we're  going  to  sample  the  garden  tO' 
mo?row  morning,  aren't  we?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Kitty.     Then,  after  a  moment, 

50 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

she  looked  at  her  right-hand  neighbor,  the  young  poh- 
tician  to  whom  as  yet  she  had  scarcely  vouchsafed  a 
word. 

"What's  his  name?"  she  asked,  under  her  breath. 
Ashe  repeated  it. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  talk  to  him?" 

"Of  course  you  ought,"  said  Ashe,  with  smiling  deci- 
sion, and  turning  to  the  lady  whom  he  had  brought  in  he 
left  her  free. 

When  the  ladies  rose,  Lady  Grosville  led  the  way  to 
the  large  drawing-room,  a  room  which,  like  the  library, 
had  some  character,  and  a  thin  elegance  of  style,  not, 
however,  warmed  and  harmonized  by  the  delightful  pres- 
ence of  books.  The  walls,  blue  and  white  in  color, 
were  panelled  in  stucco  relief.  A  few  family  portraits, 
stiff  handlings  of  stiff  people,  were  placed  each  in  the 
exact  centre  of  its  respective  panel.  There  were  a  few 
cases  of  china  and  a  few  polished  tables.  A  crimson 
Brussels  carpet,  chosen  by  Lady  Grosville  for  its  "  cheer- 
fulness," covered  the  floor,  and  there  was  a  large  white 
sheepskin  rug  before  the  fireplace.  A  few  hyacinths  in 
pots,  and  the  bright  fire  supplied  the  only  gay  and  living 
notes — before  the  ladies  arrived. 

Still,  for  an  English  eye,  the  room  had  a  certain  cold 
charm,  was  moreover  full  of  history.  It  hardly  deserved 
at  any  rate  the  shiver  with  which  Kitty  Bristol  looked 
round  it. 

But  she  had  Httle  time  to  dwell  upon  the  room  and 
its  meanings,  for  Lady  Grosville  approached  her  with  a 
manner  which  still  showed  signs  of  the  catastrophe  be- 
fore dinner. 

51 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Kitty,  I  think  you  don't  know  Miss  Lyster  yet — 
Mary  Lyster — she  wants  to  be  introduced  to  you." 

Mary  advanced  smiling;  Kitty  held  out  a  limp  hand, 
and  they  exchanged  a  few  words  standing  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor,  while  the  other  guests  found  seats. 

"What  a  charming  contrast!"  said  Lady  Edith  Man- 
ley  in  Lady  Grosville's  ear.  She  nodded  smiling  towards 
the  standing  pair — struck  by  the  fine  straight  lines  of 
Mary's  satin  dress,  the  roundness  of  her  fine  figure,  the 
oval  of  her  head  and  face,  and  then  by  the  little,  vibrat- 
ing, tempestuous  creature  beside  her,  so  distinguished, 
in  spite  of  the  billowing  flounces  and  ribbons,  so  direct 
and  significant,  amid  all  the  elaboration. 

"Kitty  is  ridiculously  overdressed,"  said  Lady  Gros- 
ville.  "I  hope  we  shall  soon  change  that.  My  girls  are 
going  to  take  her  to  their  woman." 

Lady  Edith  put  up  her  eye-glass  slowly  and  looked 
at  the  two  Grosville  girls;  then  back  at  Kitty. 

Meanwhile  a  few  perfunctory  questions  and  answers 
were  passing  between  Miss  Lyster  and  her  companion. 
Mary's  aspect  as  she  talked  was  extremely  amiable ;  one 
might  have  called  it  indulgent,  perhaps  even  by  an 
adjective  that  implied  a  yet  further  shade  of  delicate 
superiority.  Kitty  met  it  by  the  same  "  grand  manner  " 
that  Ashe  had  several  times  observed  in  her,  a  manner 
caught  perhaps  from  some  French  model,  and  carica- 
tured in  the  taking.  Her  eyes  meanwhile  took  note  of 
Mary's  face  and  dress,  and  while  she  listened  her  small 
teeth  tormented  her  under-lip,  as  though  she  restrained 
impatience.  All  at  once  in  the  midst  of  some  informa- 
tion that  Miss  Lyster  was  lucidly  giving,  Kitty  made  an 
impetuous  turn.     She  had  caught  some  words  on  the 

52 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

farther  side  of  the  room;  and  she  looked  hard,  eagerly, 
at  the  speaker. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  inquired. 

Mary  Lyster,  with  a  sharp  sense  of  interruption, 
tephed  that  she  beheved  the  lady  in  question  was  the 
Grosville's  French  governess.  But  in  the  very  midst  of 
her  sentence  Kitty  deserted  her,  left  her  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  drawing-room,  while  the  deserter  fled 
across  it,  and  sinking  down  beside  the  astonished  mad- 
emoiselle took  the  Frenchwoman's  hand  by  assault  and 
held  it  in  both  her  own. 

"Vous  parlez  Frangais? — vous  etes  Frangaise?  Ah! 
ga  me  fait  tant  de  bien!  Voyons!  voyons! — causons  un 
peu!" 

And  bending  forward,  she  broke  into  a  cataract  of 
French,  all  the  elements  of  her  strange,  small  beauty 
rushing,  as  it  were,  into  flame  and  movement  at  the 
swift  sound  and  cadence  of  the  words,  like  a  dancer 
kindled  by  music.  The  occasion  was  of  the  slightest ;  the 
Frenchwoman  might  well  show  a  natural  bewilderment. 
But  into  the  slight  occasion  the  girl  threw  an  animation, 
a  passion,  that  glorified  it.  It  was  like  the  leap  of  a  wild 
rain-stream  on  the  mountains,  that  pours  into  the  first 
channel  which  presents  itself. 

"What  beautiful  French!"  said  Lady  Edith,  softly,  to 
Mary  Lyster,  who  had  found  a  seat  beside  her. 

Mary  Lyster  smiled. 

"She  has  been  at  school,  of  course,  in  a  French  con- 
vent." Somehow  the  tone  implied  that  the  explanation 
disposed  of  all  merit  in  the  performance. 

"I  am  afraid  these  French  convent  schools  are  not  at 
all  what  they  should  be,"  said  Lady  Grosville. 

53 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

And  rising  to  a  pyramidal  height,  her  ample  moire 
dress  swelling  behind  her,  her  gray  head  magnificenth^ 
crowned  by  its  lace  cap  and  black  velvet  bandeau,  she 
swept  across  the  room  to  where  the  Dean's  wife,  Mrs. 
Winston,  sat  in  fascinated  silence  observing  Lady 
Kitty.  The  silence  and  the  attention  annoyed  her 
hostess.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  with  girls  of  this 
type,  it  seemed  to  Lady  Grosville,  was  to  prove  to 
them  that  they  would  not  be  allowed  to  monopolize 
society. 

There  are  natural  monopolies,  however,  and  they  are 
not  easy  to  deal  with. 

As  soon  as  the  gentlemen  returned,  Mr.  Rankine, 
whom  she  had  treated  so  badly  at  dinner,  the  young 
Agent  of  the  estate,  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  the 
Austrian  attache,  the  cabinet  minister,  and  the  Dean, 
all  showed  a  strong  inclination  to  that  side  of  the  room 
which  seemed  to  be  held  in  force  by  Lady  Kitty.  The 
Dean  especially  was  not  to  be  gainsaid.  He  placed 
himself  in  the  seat  shyly  vacated  by  the  French  gov- 
erness, and  crossed  his  thin,  stockinged  legs  with  the  air 
of  one  who  means  to  take  his  ease.  There  was  even  a 
certain  curious  resemblance  between  him  and  Kitty,  as 
was  noticed  from  a  distance  by  Ashe.  The  Dean,  who 
was  very  much  a  man  of  the  world,  and  came  of  an  his- 
toric family,  was,  in  his  masculine  degree,  planned  on  the 
same  miniature  scale  and  with  the  same  fine  finish  as  the 
girl  of  eighteen.  And  he  carried  his  knee-breeches,  his 
apron,  and  his  exquisite  white  head  with  a  natural  charm 
and  energy  akin  to  hers — mellowed  though  it  were  by 
time,  and  dignified  by  office.     He  began  eagerly  to  talk 

54 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

to  her  of  Paris.  His  father  had  been  ambassador  for  a 
time  under  Louis  Philippe,  and  he  had  boyish  memories 
of  the  great  house  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  and  of  the 
Orleanist  ministers  and  men  of  letters.  And  lo!  Kitty- 
met  him  at  once,  in  a  glow  and  sparkle  that  enchanted 
the  old  man.  Moreover,  it  appeared  that  this  much- 
beflounced  young  lady  could  talk ;  that  she  had  heard  of 
the  famous  names  and  the  great  affairs  to  which  the 
Dean  made  allusion;  that  she  possessed  indeed  a  native 
and  surprising  interest  in  matter  of  the  sort ;  and  a  man- 
ner, above  all,  with  the  old,  alternately  soft  and  daring, 
calculated,  as  Lady  Grosville  would  no  doubt  have  put  it, 
merely  to  make  fools  of  them. 

In  her  cousins'  house,  it  seemed,  she  had  talked  with 
old  people,  survivors  of  the  Orleanist  and  Bourbon 
regimes — even  of  the  Empire;  had  sat  at  their  feet,  a 
small,  excited  hero  -  worshipper ;  and  had  then  rushed 
blindly  into  the  memoirs  and  books  that  concerned  them. 
So,  in  this  French  world  the  child  had  found  time  for 
other  things  than  hunting,  and  the  flattery  of  her  cousin 
Henri?  Ashe  was  supposed  to  be  devoting  himself  to 
the  Dean's  wife ;  but  both  he  and  she  listened  most  of  the 
time  to  the  sallies  and  the  laughter  of  the  circle  where 
Kitty  presided. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  cried  the  delighted  Dean, 
"I  never  find  anybody  who  can  talk  of  these  things — it 
is  really  astonishing.  Ah,  noiv,  we  English  know  noth- 
ing of  France — nor  they  of  us.  Why,  I  was  a  mere 
school-boy  then,  and  I  had  a  passion  for  their  societ3% 
and  their  books — for  their  plays — dare  I  confess  it?" — 
he  lowered  his  voice  and  glanced  at  his  hostess — "their 
plays,  above  all!" 

55 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Kitty  clapped  her  hands.  The  Dean  looked  at  her, 
and  ran  on: 

"My  mother  shared  it.  When  I  came  over  for  my 
Eton  holidays,  she  and  I  lived  at  the  Theatre-Franjais. 
Ah,  those  were  days!  /  remember  Mademoiselle  Mars  in 
'Hernani.' " 

Kitty  bounded  in  her  seat.  Whereupon  it  appeared 
that  just  before  she  left  Paris  she  had  been  taken  by  a 
friend  to  see  the  reigning  idol  of  the  Comedie-Fran9aise, 
the  young  and  astonishing  actress,  Sarah  Bernhardt,  as 
Doiia  Sol.  And  there  began  straightway  an  excited 
duet  between  her  and  the  Dean ;  a  comparison  of  old  and 
new,  a  rivalry  of  heroines,  a  hot  and  critical  debate  that 
presently  silenced  all  other  conversation  in  the  room, 
and  brought  Lord  Grosville  to  stand  gaping  and  astound- 
ed behind  the  Dean,  reflecting  no  doubt  that  this  was 
not  precisely  the  Dean  of  the  Diocesan  Conference. 

The  old  man  indeed  forgot  his  age,  the  girl  her  youth ; 
they  met  as  equals,  on  poetic  ground,  till  suddenly 
Kitty,  springing  up,  and  to  prove  her  point,  began  an 
imitation  of  Sarah  in  the  great  love-scene  of  the  last 
act,  before  arresting  fate,  in  the  person  of  Don  Ruy, 
breaks  in  upon  the  rapture  of  the  lovers.  She  absolutely 
forgot  the  Grosville  drawing-room,  the  staring  Grosville 
girls,  the  other  faces,  astonished  or  severe,  neutral  or 
friendly.  Out  rolled  the  tide  of  tragic  verse,  fine  poetry, 
and  high  passion;  and  though  it  be  not  very  much  to 
say,  it  must  at  least  be  said  that  never  had  such  recita- 
tion, in  such  French,  been  heard  before  within  the  walls 
of  Grosville  Park.  Nor  had  the  lips  of  any  English  girl 
ever  dealt  there  with  a  poetic  diction  so  unchastened 
and   unashamed.     Lady   Grosville   might   well   feel    as 

56 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

though  the  solid  frame  of  things  were  melting  and 
cracking  round  .her. 

Kitty  ceased.  She  fell  back  upon  her  chair,  smitten 
with  a  sudden  perception. 

"You  made  me!"  she  said,  reproachfully,  to  the 
Dean. 

The  Dean  said  another  "Brava!"  and  gave  another 
clap.  Then,  becoming  aware  of  Lord  Grosville's  open 
mouth  and  eye,  he  sat  up,  caught  his  wife's  expression, 
and  came  back  to  prose  and  the  present. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  began,  "  you  have  the  most 
extraordinary  talent — "  when  Lady  Grosville  advanced 
upon  him.  Standing  before  him,  she  majestically  sig- 
nalled to  her  husband  across  his  small  person. 

"William,  kindly  order  Mrs.  Wilson's  carriage." 

Lord  Grosville  awoke  from  his  stupor  with  a  jerk,  and 
did  as  he  was  told.  Mrs.  Wilson,  the  agent's  timid  wife, 
who  was  not  at  all  aware  that  she  had  asked  for  her 
carriage,  rose  obediently.  Then  the  mistress  of  the 
house  turned  to  Lady  Kitty. 

"You  recite  very  well,  Kitty,"  she  said,  with  cold  and 
stately  emphasis,  "but  another  time  I  will  ask  you  to 
confine  yourself  to  Racine  and  Corneille.  In  England 
we  have  to  be  very  careful  about  French  writers.  There 
are,  however,  if  I  remember  right,  some  fine  passages  in 
'Athalie.'" 

Kitty  said  nothing.  The  Austrian  attache,  who  had 
been  following  the  little  incident  with  the  liveliest  in- 
terest, retired  to  a  close  inspection  of  the  china.  But 
the  Dean,  whose  temper  was  of  the  quick  and  chivalrous 
kind,  was  roused. 

"She   recites   wonderfully!     And   Victor   Hugo   is   a 

57 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

classic,  please,  my  lady — just  as  much  as  the  rest  of 
them.  Ah,  well,  no  doubt,  no  doubt,  there  might  be 
things  more  suitable."  And  the  old  man  came  waver- 
ing down  to  earth,  as  the  enthusiasm  which  Kitty  had 
breathed  into  him  escaped,  like  the  gas  from  a  balloon. 
"  But,  do  you  know.  Lady  Kitty  " — he  struck  into  a  new 
subject  with  eagerness,  partly  to  cover  the  girl,  partly 
to  silence  Lady  Grosville — "you  reminded  me  all  the 
time  so  remarkably — in  your  voice — certain  inflections — 
of  your  sister — your  step-sister,  isn't  it  ? — Lady  Alice  ? 
You  know,  of  course,  she  is  close  to  you  to-day — just 
the  other  side  the  park — with  the  Sowerbys?" 

The  Dean's  wife  sprang  to  her  feet  in  despair.  In 
general  it  was  to  her  a  matter  for  fond  complacency  that 
her  husband  had  no  memory  for  gossip,  and  was  in  such 
matters  as  innocent  and  as  dangerous  as  a  child.  But 
this  was  too  much.  At  the  same  moment  Ashe  came 
quickly  forward. 

"My  sister?"  said  Kitty.     "My  sister?" 

She  spoke  low  and  uncertainly,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  Dean. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  odd  sense  of  some- 
thing unusual,  then  went  on,  still  floundering: 

"We  met  her  at  St.  Pancras  on  our  way  down.  If  I 
had  only  known  we  were  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you —  Do  you  know,  I  think  she  is  looking 
decidedly  better?" 

His  kindly  expression  as  he  rose  expected  a  word  of 
sisterly  assent.  Meanwhile  even  Lady  Grosville  was 
paralyzed,  and  the  words  with  which  she  had  meant  to 
interpose  failed  on  her  lips. 

Kitty,  too,  rose,  looking  round  for  something,  which 

58 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

she  seemed  to  find  in  the  face  of  William  Ashe,  for  her 
eyes  clung  there. 

"My  sister,"  she  repeated,  in  the  same  low,  strained 
voice.  "My  sister  Alice?  I — I  don't  know.  I  have 
never  seen  her." 

Ashe  could  not  remember  afterwards  precisely  how 
the  incident  closed.  There  was  a  bustle  of  departing 
guests,  and  from  the  midst  of  it  Lady  Kitty  slipped 
away.  But  as  he  came  down-stairs  in  smoking  trim, 
ten  minutes  later,  he  overheard  the  injured  Dean  wrest- 
ling with  his  wife,  as  she  lit  a  candle  for  him  on  the 
landing. 

"My  dear,  what  did  you  look  at  me  like  that  for.'' 
What  did  the  child  mean  ?  And  what  on  earth  is  the 
matter  ?' 

5 


IV 


AFTER  the  ladies  had  gone  to  bed,  on  the  night  of 
Jr\  Lady  Kitty's  recitation,  WilHam  Ashe  stayed  up 
till  past  midnight  talking  with  old  Lord  Grosville. 
When  relieved  of  the  presence  of  his  women-kind,  who 
were  apt  either  to  oppress  him,  in  the  person  of  his  wife, 
or  to  puzzle  him,  in  the  persons  of  his  daughters,  Lord 
Grosville  was  not  by  any  means  without  value  as  a 
talker.  He  possessed  that  narrow  but  still  most  ser- 
viceable fund  of  human  experience  which  the  English 
land-owner,  while  our  English  tradition  subsists,  can 
hardly  escape,  if  he  will.  As  guardsman,  volunteer, 
magistrate,  lord-lieutenant,  member — for  the  sake  of 
his  name  and  his  acres — of  various  important  com- 
missions, as  military  attache  even,  for  a  short  space,  to  an 
important  embassy,  he  had  acquired,  by  mere  living, 
that  for  which  his  intellectual  betters  had  often  envied 
him — a  certain  shrewdness,  a  certain  instinct,  as  to  both 
men  and  affairs,  which  were  often  of  more  service  to  him 
than  finer  brains  to  other  persons.  But,  like  most  ac- 
complishments, these  also  brought  their  own  conceit 
with  them.  Lord  Grosville  having,  in  his  own  opinion, 
done  extremely  well  without  much  book  education  him- 
self, had  but  little  appreciation  for  it  in  others. 

Nevertheless  he  rarely  missed  a  chance  of  conversa- 
tion with  William  Ashe,  not  because  the  younger  man,  in 

60 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

spite  of  his  past  indolence,  was  generally  held  to  be  both 
able  and  accomplished,  but  because  the  elder  found  in 
him  an  invincible  taste  for  men  and  women,  their  fort- 
unes, oddities,  catastrophes  —  especially  the  latter  — 
similar  to  his  own. 

Like  Mary  Lyster,  both  were  good  gossips;  but  of  a 
much  more  disinterested  type  than  she.  Women  indeed 
as  gossips  are  too  apt  to  pursue  either  the  damnation  of 
some  one  else  or  the  apotheosis  of  themselves.  But 
here  the  stupider  no  less  than  the  abler  man  showed  a 
certain  broad  detachment  not  very  common  in  women — 
amused  by  the  human  comedy  itself,  making  no  profit 
out  of  it,  either  for  themselves  or  morals,  but  asking  only 
that  the  play  should  go  on. 

The  incident,  or  rather  the  heroine  of  the  evening,  had 
given  Lord  Grosville  a  topic  which  in  the  case  of  William 
Ashe  he  saw  no  reason  for  avoiding;  and  in  the  peace 
of  the  smoking  -  room,  when  he  was  no  longer  either 
hungry  for  his  dinner  or  worried  by  his  responsibilities 
as  host,  he  fell  upon  his  wife's  family,  and,  as  though  he 
had  been  the  manager  of  a  puppet-show,  unpacked  the 
whole  box  of  them  for  Ashe's  entertainment. 

Figure  after  figure  emerged,  one  more  besmirched 
than  another,  till  finally  the  most  beflecked  of  all  was 
shaken  out  and  displayed — Lady  Grosville's  brother  and 
Kitty's  father,  the  late  Lord  Blackwater.  And  on  this 
occasion  Ashe  did  not  try  to  escape  the  story  which  was 
thus  a  second  time  brought  across  him.  Lord  Grosville, 
if  he  pleased,  had  a  right  to  tell  it,  and  there  was  now 
a  curious  feeling  in  Ashe's  mind  which  had  been  entirely 
absent  before,  that  he  had,  in  some  sort,  a  right  to  hear  it. 

Briefly,  the  outlines  of  it  fell  into  something  like  this 

6i 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

shape:  Henry,  fifth  Earl  of  Blackwater,  had  begun  hfe  as 
an  Irish  peer,  with  more  money  than  the  majority  of  his 
class ;  an  initial  advantage  soon  undone  by  an  insane  and 
unscrupulous  extravagance.  He  was,  however,  a  fine, 
handsome,  voracious  gentleman,  born  to  prey  upon  his 
kind,  and  when  he  looked  for  an  heiress  he  was  not  long 
in  finding  her.  His  first  wife,  a  very  rich  woman, 
bore  him  one  daughter.  Before  the  daughter  was  three 
years  old.  Lord  Blackwater  had  developed  a  sturdy  ha- 
tred of  the  mother,  chiefly  because  she  failed  to  present 
him  with  a  son ;  and  he  could  not  even  appease  himself  by 
the  free  spending  of  her  money,  which,  so  far  as  the 
capital  was  concerned,  was  sharply  looked  after  by  a 
pair  of  trustees,  Belfast  manufacturers  and  Presbyteri- 
ans, to  whom  the  Blackwater  type  was  not  at  all  con- 
genial. 

These  restrictions  presently  wore  out  Lord  Black- 
water's  patience.  He  left  his  wife,  with  a  small  allow- 
ance, to  bring  up  her  daughter  in  one  of  his  Irish  houses, 
while  he  generously  spent  the  rest  of  her  large  income, 
and  his  own,  and  a  great  deal  besides,  in  London  and  on 
the  Continent. 

Lady  Blackwater,  however,  was  not  long  before  she 
obliged  him  by  dying.  Her  girl,  then  twelve  years  old, 
lived  for  a  time  with  one  of  her  mother's  trustees.  But 
when  she  had  reached  the  age  of  seventeen  her  father 
suddenly  commanded  her  presence  in  Paris,  that  she 
might  make  acquaintance  with  his  second  wife. 

The  new  Lady  Blackwater  was  an  extremely  beautiful 
woman,  Irish,  as  the  first  had  been,  but  like  her  in  no 
other  respect.  Margaret  Fitzgerald  was  the  daughter  of 
a  cosmopolitan  pair,  who  after  many  shifts  for  a  living, 

62 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

had  settled  in  Paris,  where  the  father  acted  as  corre- 
spondent for  various  EngHsh  papers.  Her  beauty,  her 
caprices,  and  her  "affairs"  were  all  well  known  in  Paris. 
As  to  what  the  relations  between  her  and  Lord  Black- 
water  might  have  been  before  the  death  of  the  wife.  Lord 
Grosville  took  a  frankly  uncharitable  view.  But  when 
that  event  occurred,  Blackwater  was  beginning  to  get 
old,  and  Miss  Fitzgerald  had  become  necessary  to  him. 
She  pressed  all  her  advantages,  and  it  ended  in  his  mar- 
rying her.  The  new  Lady  Blackwater  presented  him 
with  one  child,  a  daughter;  and  about  two  years  after  its 
birth  he  sent  for  his  elder  daughter,  Lady  Alice,  to  join 
them  in  the  sumptuous  apartment  in  the  Place  Ven- 
dome  which  he  had  furnished  for  his  new  wife,  in  de- 
fiance both  of  his  English  and  Irish  creditors. 

Lady  Alice  arrived — a  fair  slip  of  a  girl,  possessed,  it 
was  plain  to  see,  by  a  nervous  terror  both  of  her  father 
and  step-mother.  But  Lady  Blackwater  received  her 
with  effusion,  caressed  her  in  public,  dressed  her  to  per- 
fection, and  made  all  possible  use  of  the  girl's  presence  in 
the  house  for  the  advancement  of  her  own  social  position. 
Within  a  year  the  Belfast  trustees,  watching  uneasily 
from  a  distance,  received  a  letter  from  Lord  Blackwater, 
announcing  Lady  Alice's  runaway  marriage  with  a  cer- 
tain Colonel  Wensleydale,  formerly  of  the  Grenadier 
Guards.  Lord  Blackwater  professed  himself  vastly  an- 
noyed and  displeased.  The  young  people,  furiously  in 
love,  had  managed  the  affair,  however,  with  a  skill  that 
baffled  all  vigilance.  Married  they  were,  and  without 
any  settlements,  Colonel  AVensleydale  having  nothing 
to  settle,  and  Lady  Alice,  like  a  little  fool,  being  only 
anxious  to  pour  all  that  she  possessed  into  the  lap  of  her 

63 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

beloved.  The  father  threw  himself  on  the  mercy  of  the 
trustees,  reminding  them  that  in  little  more  than  three 
years  Lady  Alice  would  become  unfettered  mistress  of 
her  own  fortune,  and  begging  them  meanwhile  to  make 
proper  provision  for  the  rash  but  happy  pair.  Harry 
Wensleydale,  after  all,  was  a  rattling  good  fellow,  with 
whom  all  the  young  women  were  in  love.  The  thing, 
though  naughty,  was  natural;  and  the  colonel  would 
make  an  excellent  husband. 

One  Presbyterian  trustee  left  his  business  in  Belfast 
and  ventured  himself'  among  the  abominations  of  Paris. 
He  was  much  befooled  and  befeasted.  He  found  a  shy 
young  wife  tremulously  in  love;  a  handsome  husband; 
an  amiable  step-mother.  He  knew  no  one  in  Paris  who 
could  enlighten  him,  and  was  not  clever  enough  to  invent 
means  of  getting  information  for  himself.  He  was  in- 
duced to  promise  a  sufficient  income  for  the  moment  on 
behalf  of  himself  and  his  co-trustee ;  and  for  the  rest  was 
obliged  to  be  content  with  vague  assurances  from  Colonel 
Wensleydale  that  as  soon  as  his  wife  came  into  her 
property  fitting  settlements  should  be  made. 

Four  years  passed  by.  The  young  people  lived  with 
the  Blackwaters,  and  their  income  kept  the  establish- 
ment going.  Lady  Alice  had  a  child,  and  was  at  first 
not  altogether  unhappy.  She  was  little  more  than  a 
timid  child  herself;  and  no  doubt,  to  begin  with,  she  was 
in  love.  Then  came  her  majority.  In  defiance  of  all 
her  trustees,  she  gave  her  whole  fortune  to  her  husband, 
and  no  power  could  prevent  her  from  so  doing. 

The  Blackwater  manage  blazed  up  into  a  sudden 
splendor.  Lady  Blackwater's  carriage  and  Lady  Black- 
water's  jewels  had  never  been  finer;  and  amid  the  crowds 

64 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

who  frequented  the  house,  the  slight  figure,  the  sallow 
face,  and  absent  eyes  of  her  step-daughter  attracted  little 
remark.  Lady  Alice  Wensleydale  was  said  to  be  deli- 
cate and  reserved;  she  made  no  friends,  explained  her- 
self to  no  one ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  she  occupied  her- 
self with  her  little  boy. 

Then  one  December  she  disappeared  from  the  apart- 
ment in  the  Place  Vend6me.  It  was  said  that  she  and 
the  boy  found  the  climate  of  Paris  too  cold  in  winter,  and 
had  gone  for  a  time  to  Italy.  Colonel  Wensleydale 
continued  to  live  with  the  Blackwaters,  and  their  apart- 
ment was  no  less  sumptuous,  their  dinners  no  less  talked 
of,  their  extravagance  no  less  noisy  than  before.  But 
Lady  Alice  did  not  come  back  with  the  spring ;  and  some 
ugly  rumors  began  to  creep  about.  They  were  checked, 
however,  by  the  death  of  Lord  Blackwater,  which  oc- 
curred within  a  year  of  his  daughter's  departure ;  by  the 
monstrous  debts  he  left  behind  him;  and  by  the  sale  of 
the  contents  of  the  famous  apartment,  matters,  all  of 
them,  sufficiently  ugly  or  scandalous  in  themselves  to 
keep  the  tongues  of  fame  busy.  Lady  Blackwater  left 
Paris,  and  when  she  reappeared,  it  was  in  Rome  as  the 
Comtesse  d'Estrees,  the  wife  of  yet  another  old  man, 
whose  health  obliged  them  to  winter  in  the  south  and  to 
spend  the  summer  in  yachting.  Her  salon  in  Rome 
under  Pio  Nono  became  a  great  rendezvous  for  English 
and  Americans,  attracted  by  the  historic  names  and 
titles  that  M.  d'Estrees'  connections  among  the  Black 
nobility,  his  wealth,  and  his  interest  in  several  of  the 
Catholic  bankitig-houses  of  Rome  and  Naples  enabled 
his  wife  to  command. 

Colonel  Wensleydale  did  not  appear.     Madame  d'Es- 

65 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

tr^es  let  it  be  understood  that  her  step-daughter  was  of  a 
difficult  temper,  and  now  spent  most  of  her  time  in  Ire- 
land. Her  own  daughter,  her  "darling  Kitty,"  was  be- 
ing educated  in  Paris  by  the  Soeurs  Blanches,  and  she 
pined  for  the  day  when  the  "little  sweet"  should  join 
her,  ready  to  spread  her  wings  in  the  great  world.  But 
mothers  must  not  be  impatient,  Kitty  must  have  all  the 
advantages  that  befitted  her  rank;  and  to  what  better 
hands  could  the  most  anxious  mother  intrust  her  than 
to  those  charming,  aristocratic,  accomplished  nuns  of 
the  Soeurs  Blanches? 

Then  one  January  day  M.  d'Estrees  drove  out  to 
San  Paolo  fuori  le  Mura,  and  caught  a  blast  from  the 
snowy  Sabines  coming  back.  In  three  days  he  was  dead, 
and  his  well-provided  widow  had  snatched  the  bulk  of 
his  fortune  from  the  hands  of  his  needy  and  embittered 
kindred. 

Within  six  months  of  his  death  she  had  bought  a 
house  in  St.  James's  Place,  and  her  London  career  had 
begun. 

"  It  is  here  that  we  come  in,"  said  Lord  Grosville,  when, 
with  more  digressions  and  more  plainness  of  speech  with 
regard  to  his  quondam  sister-in-law  than  can  be  here 
reproduced,  he  had  brought  his  story  to  this  point. 
"  Blackwater — the  old  ruffian — when  he  was  dying  had  a 
moment  of  remorse.  He  wrote  to  my  wife  and  asked  her 
to  look  after  his  girls,  '  For  God's  sake,  Lina,  see  if  you 
can  help  Alice — Wensley dale's  a  perfect  brute.'  That 
was  the  first  light  we  had  on  the  situation,  for  Adelina 
had  long  before  washed  her  hands  of  him;  and  we  knew 
that  she  hated  us.     Well,  we  tried;  of  course  we  tried. 

66 


The    Marriage   of  William    Ashe 

But  so  long  as  her  husband  lived  Alice  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  any  of  us.  I  suppose  she  thought  that 
for  her  boy's  sake  she'd  better  keep  a  bad  business  to 
herself  as  much  as  possible — " 

"Wensleydale — Wensleydale  ?"  said  Ashe,  who  had 
been  smoking  hard  and  silently  beside  his  host.  "You 
mean  the  man  who  distinguished  himself  in  the  Crimea  ? 
He  died  last  year — at  Naples,  wasn't  it?" 

Lord  Grosville  assented. 

It  appeared  that  during  the  last  year  of  his  life  Lady 
Alice  had  nursed  her  husband  faithfully  through  disease 
and  poverty;  for  scarcely  a  vestige  of  her  fortune  re- 
mained, and  an  application  for  money  made  by  Wensley- 
dale to  Madame  d'Estrees,  unknown  to  his  wife,  had 
been  peremptorily  refused.  The  colonel  died,  and 
within  three  months  of  his  death  Lady  Alice  had  also 
lost  her  son  and  only  child,  of  blood-poisoning  developed 
in  Naples,  whither  he  had  been  summoned  from  school 
that  his  father  might  see  him  for  the  last  time. 

Then,  after  seventeen  years,  Lady  Alice  came  back  to 
her  kindred,  who  had  last  seen  her  as  a  young  girl — 
gentle,  undeveloped,  easily  led,  and  rather  stupid.  She 
returned  a  gray-haired  woman  of  thirty-four,  who  had 
lost  youth,  fortune,  child,  and  husband;  whose  aspect, 
moreover,  suggested  losses  still  deeper  and  more  drear. 
At  first  she  wrapped  herself  in  what  seemed  to  some  a 
dull  and  to  others  a  tragic  silence.  But  suddenly  a  flame 
leaped  up  in  her.  She  became  aware  of  the  position 
of  Madame  d'Estrees  in  London;  and  one  day,  at  a  pri- 
vate view  of  the  Academy,  her  former  step-mother  went 
up  to  her  smiling,  with  out-stretched  hand.  Lady  Alice 
turned  very  pale;  the  hand  dropped,  and  Alice  Wensley- 

67 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

dale  walked  rapidly  away.     But  that  night,  in  the  Gros- 
ville  house,  she  spoke  out. 

"She  told  Lina  and  myself  the  whole  story.  You'd 
have  thought  the  woman  was  possessed.  My  wife — 
she's  not  of  the  crying  sort,  nor  am  I.  But  she  cried, 
and  I  believe — ^well,  I  can  tell  you  it  was  enough  to 
move  a  stone.  And  when  she'd  done,  she  just  went 
away,  and  locked  her  door,  and  let  no  one  say  a  word 
to  her.  She  has  told  one  or  two  other  relations  and 
friends,  and — " 

"And  the  relations  and  friends  have  told  others?" 

"Well,  I  can  answer  for  myself,"  said  Grosville  after 
a  pause.  "This  happened  three  months  ago.  I  never 
have  told,  and  never  shall  tell,  all  the  details  as 
she  told  them  to  us.  But  we  have  let  enough  be 
known — " 

"Enough? — enough  to  damn  Madame  d'Estrees?" 

"Oh,  well,  as  far  as  the  women  were  concerned,  she 
was  mos.tly  that  already.  There  are  other  tales  going 
about.     I  expect  you  know  them." 

"No,  I  don't  know  them,"  said  Ashe. 

Lord  Grosville's  face  expressed  surprise.  "Well,  this 
finished  it,"  he  said. 

"Poor  child!"  said  Ashe,  slowly,  putting  down  his 
cigarette  and  turning  a  thoughtful  look  on  the  carpet. 

"Alice?"  said  Lord  Grosville. 

"No." 

"Oh!  you  mean  Kitty?  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  her  for 
the  moment.     Yes,  poor  child." 

There  was  silence  a  moment,  then  Lord  Grosville  in- 
quired : 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

68 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"I?"  said  Ashe,  with  a  laugh.  "I  don't  know. 
She's  obviously  very  pretty — " 

"And  a  handful!"  said  Lord  Grosville. 

"Oh,  quite  plainly  a  handful,"  said  Ashe,  rather 
absently.  Then  the  memory  of  Kitty's  entry  recurred 
to  them  both,  and  they  laughed. 

"Not  much  shyness  left  in  that  young  woman — eh?" 
said  the  old  man.  "  She  tells  my  girls  such  stories  of  her 
French  doings — my  wife's  had  to  stop  it.  She  seems  to 
have  had  all  sorts  of  love-affairs  already.  And,  of  course, 
she'll  have  any  number  over  here — sure  to.  Some  un- 
scrupulous fellow  '11  get  hold  of  her,  for  naturally  the 
right  sort  won't  marry  her.  I  don't  know  what  we  can 
do.  Adelina  offered  to  take  her  altogether.  But  that 
woman  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  She  wrote  Lina  rather  a 
good  letter — on  her  dignity — and  that  kind  of  thing. 
We  gave  her  an  opening,  and,  by  Jove!  she  took  it." 

"And  meanwhile  Lady  Kitty  has  nd  dealings  with  her 
step-sister?" 

"You  heard  what  she  said.  Extraordinary  girl!  to 
let  the  thing  out  plump  like  that.  Just  like  the  blood. 
They  say  anything  that  comes  into  their  heads.  If  we 
had  known  that  Alice  was  to  be  with  the  Sowerbys  this 
week-end,  my  wife  would  certainly  have  put  Kitty  off. 
It  would  be  uncommonly  awkward  if  they  were  to  meet 
— here  for  instance.     Hullo!     Is  it  getting  late?" 

For  the  whist-players  at  the  end  of  the  library  had 
pushed  back  their  chairs,  and  men  were  strolUng  back 
from  the  billiard-room. 

"I  am  afraid  Lady  Kitty  understands  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  with  her  mother's  position,"  said  Ashe,  as 
they  rose. 

69 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"I  dare  say.  Brought  up  in  Paris,  you  see,"  said  the 
white-haired  EngHshman,  with  a  shrug.  "Of  course,  she 
knows  everything  she  shouldn't." 

"Brought  up  in  a  convent,  please,"  said  Ashe,  smiHng. 
"And  I  thought  the  French  girl  was  the  most  innocent 
and  ignorant  thing  aUve." 

Lord  Grosville  received  the  remark  with  derision. 

"You  ask  my  wife  what  she  thinks  about  French 
convents.  She  knows — she's  had  lots  of  Catholic  rela- 
tions.    She'll  tell  you  tales." 

Ashe  thought,  however,  that  he  could  trust  himself 
to  see  that  she  did  nothing  of  the  sort. 

The  smoking-room  broke  up  late,  but  the  new  Under- 
Secretary  sat  up  still  later,  reading  and  smoking  in  his 
bedroom.  A  box  of  Foreign  Office  papers  lay  on  his 
table.  He  went  through  them  with  a  keen  sense  of 
pleasure,  enjoying  his  new  work  and  his  own  compe- 
tence to  do  it,  of  which,  notwithstanding  his  remarks  to 
Mary  Lyster,  he  was  not  really  at  all  in  doubt.  Then 
when  his  comments  were  done,  and  the  papers  replaced 
in  the  order  in  which  they  would  now  go  up  to  the 
Secretary  of  State,  he  felt  the  spring  night  oppressively 
m*ild,  and  walking  to  the  window,  he  threw  it  wide 
open. 

He  looked  out  upon  a  Dutch  garden,  full  of  spring 
flowers  in  bloom.  In  the  midst  was  a  small  fountain, 
which  murmured  to  itself  through  the  night.  An 
orangery  or  conservatory,  of  a  charming  eighteenth-cen- 
tury design,  ran  round  the  garden  in  a  semicircle,  its 
flat  pilasters  and  mouldings  of  yellow  stone  taking  under 
the   moonlight   the   color   and   the   delicacy   of   ivory. 

70 


The   Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Beyond  the  terrace  which  bordered  the  garden,  the 
ground  fell  to  a  river,  of  which  the  reaches,  now  dazzling, 
now  sombre,  now  slipping  secret  under  woods,  and  now 
silverly  open  to  the  gentle  slopes  of  the  park,  brought 
wildness  and  romance  into  a  scene  that  had  else  been 
tame.  Beyond  the  river  on  a  rising  ground  was  a  village 
church  with  a  spire.  The  formal  garden,  the  Georgian 
conservatory,  the  park,  the  river,  the  church  —  they 
breathed  England  and  the  traditional  English  life.  All 
that  they  implied,  of  custom  and  inheritance,  of  strength 
and  narrowness,  of  cramping  prejudice  and  stubborn 
force,  was  very  familiar  to  Ashe,  and  on  the  whole  very 
congenial.  He  was  glad  to  be  an  Englishman  and  a 
member  of  an  English  government.  The  ironic  mood 
which  was  tolerably  constant  in  him  did  not  in  the  least 
interfere  with  his  normal  enjoyment  of  normal  goods. 
He  saw  himself  often  as  a  shade  among  shadows,  as  an 
actor  among  actors ;  but  the  play  was  good  all  the  same. 
That  a  man  should  know  himself  to  be  a  fool  was  in  his 
eyes,  as  it  was  in  Lord  Melbourne's,  the  first  of  neces- 
sities. But  fool  or  no  fool,  let  him  find  the  occupations 
that  suited  him,  and  pursue  them.  On  those  terms  life 
was  still  amply  worth  living,  and  ginger  was  still  hot  in 
the  mouth. 

This  was  his  usual  philosophy.  Religiously  he  was  a 
sceptic,  enormously  interested  in  religion.  Should  he 
ever  become  Prime  Minister,  as  Lady  Tranmore  proph- 
esied, he  would  know  much  more  theology  than  the 
bishops  he  might  be  called  on  to  appoint.  Politically,  at 
the  same  time,  he  was  an  aristocrat,  enormously  inter- 
ested in  liberty.  The  absurdities  of  his  own  class  were 
still  more  plain  to  him  perhaps  than  the  absurdities  of 

71 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

the  populace.  But  had  he  Hved  a  couple  of  generations 
earlier  he  would  have  gone  with  passion  for  Catholic 
emancipation,  and  boggled  at  the  Reform  Bill.  And  if 
fate  had  thrown  him  on  earlier  days  still,  he  would  not, 
like  Falkland,  have  died  ingeminating  peace;  he  would 
have  fought;  but  on  which  side,  no  friend  of  his — up  till 
now — could  have  been  quite  sure.  To  have  the  reputa- 
tion of  an  idler,  and  to  be  in  truth  a  plodding  and  un- 
wearied student;  this,  at  any  rate,  pleased  him.  To 
avow  an  enthusiasm,  or  an  affection,  generally  seemed 
to  him  an  indelicacy;  only  two  or  three  people  in  the 
world  knew  what  was  the  real  quality  of  his  heart.  Yet 
no  man  feigns  shirking  without  in  some  measure  learn- 
ing to  shirk;  and  there  were  certain  true  indolences  and 
sybaritisms  in  Ashe  of  which  he  was  fully  and  con- 
temptuously aware,  without  either  wishing  or  feeling 
himself  able  to  break  the  yoke  of  them. 

At  the  present  moment,  however,  he  was  rather  con- 
scious of  much  unusual  stirring  and  exaltation  of  per- 
sonality. As  he  stood  looking  out  into  the  English 
night  the  currents  of  his  blood  ran  free  and  fast.  Never 
had  he  felt  the  natural  appetite  for  living  so  strong  in 
him,  combined  with  what  seemed  to  be  at  once  a'  divina- 
tion of  coming  change,  and  a  thirst  for  it.  Was  it  the 
mere  advancement  of  his  fortunes — or  something  in- 
finitely subtler  and  sweeter?  It  was  as  though  waves 
of  softness  and  of  yearning  welled  up  from  some  unknown 
source,  seeking  an  object  and  an  outlet. 

As  he  stood  there  dreaming,  he  suddenly  became 
conscious  of  sounds  in  the  room  overhead.  Or  rather  in 
the  now  absolute  stillness  of  the  rest  of  the  house  he 
realized  that  the  movements  and  voices  above  him,  which 

72 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

had  really  been  going  on  since  he  entered  his  room, 
persisted  when  everything  else  had  died  away. 

Two  people  were  talking;  or  rather  one  voice  ran  on 
perpetually,  broken  at  intervals  by  the  other.  He  began 
to  suspect  to  whom  the  voice  belonged ;  and  as  he  did  so, 
the  window  above  his  own  was  thrown  open.  He  stepped 
back  involuntarily,  but  not  before  he  had  caught  a  few 
words  in  French,  spoken  apparently  by  Lady  Kitty. 

"Ciel!  what  a  night! — and  how  the  flowers  smell! 
And  the  stars — I  adore  the  stars!  Mademoiselle — come 
here!  Mademoiselle!  answer  me — I  won't  tell  tales — 
now  do  you — really  and  truly — believe  in  God?" 

A  laugh,  which  was  a  laugh  of  pleasure,  ran  through 
Ashe,  as  he  hurriedly  put  out  his  lights. 

"Tormentor!"  he  said  to  himself — "must  you  put  a 
woman  through  her  theological  paces  at  this  time  of 
night?  Can't  you  go  to  sleep,  you  little  whirlwind? — 
What's  to  be  done?  If  I  shut  my  window  the  noise 
will  scare  her.     But  I  can't  stand  eavesdropping  here." 

He  withdrew  softly  from  the  window  and  began  to 
undress.  But  Lady  Kitty  was  leaning  out,  and  her 
voice  carried  amazingly.  Heard  in  this  way  also,  apart 
from  form  and  face,  it  became  a  separate  living  thing. 
Ashe  stood  arrested,  his  watch  that  he  was  winding  up  in 
his  hand.  He  had  known  the  voice  till  now  as  some- 
thing sharp  and  light,  the  sign  surely  of  a  chatterer 
and  a  flirt.  To-night,  as  Kitty  made  use  of  it  to  ex- 
pound her  own  peculiar  theology  to  the  French  govern- 
ess— whereof  a  few  fragments  now  and  then  floated  down 
to  Ashe — nothing  could  have  been  more  musical,  mel- 
ancholy, caressing.  A  voice  full  of  sex,  and  the  spell  of 
sex. 

73 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

What  had  she  been  talking  of  all  these  hours  to 
mademoiselle?  A  lady  whom  she  could  never  have  set 
eyes  on  before  this  visit.  He  thought  of  her  face,  in  the 
drawing-room,  as  she  had  spoken  of  her  sister — of  her 
eyes,  so  full  of  a  bright  feverish  pain,  which  had  hung 
upon  his  own. 

Had  she,  indeed,  been  confiding  all  her  home  secrets  to 
this  stranger  ?  Ashe  felt  a  movement  of  distaste,  almost 
of  disgust.  Yet  he  remembered  that  it  was  by  her  un- 
conventionality,  her  lack  of  all  proper  reticence,  or,  as 
many  would  have  said,  all  delicate  feeling,  that  she  had 
made  her  first  impression  upon  him.  Ay,  that  had  been 
an  impression — an  impression  indeed!  He  realized  the 
fact  profoundly,  as  he  stood  lingering  in  the  darkness, 
trying  not  to  hear  the  voice  that  thrilled  him. 

At  last ! — was  she  going  to  bed  ? 

"Ah! — but  I  am  a  pig,  to  keep  you  up  like  this!  Allez 
dormir!"  (The  sound  of  a  kiss.)  "I?  Oh  no!  Why 
should  one  go  to  bed  ?  It  is  in  the  night  one  begins  to 
live." 

She  fell  to  humming  a  little  French  tune,  then  broke 
off. 

"You  remember?  You  promise?  You  have  the 
letter?" 

Asseverations  apparently  from  mademoiselle,  and  a 
mention  of  eight  o'clock,  followed  by  remorse  from  Kitty. 

"Eight  o'clock!  And  I  keep  you  like  this.  I  am  a 
brute  beast!  Allez  —  allez  vite!"  And  quick  steps 
scudded  across  the  floor  above,  followed  by  the  shutting 
of  a  door. 

Kitty,  however,  came  back  to  the  window,  and  Ashe 
could  still  hear  her  sighing  and  talking  to  herself. 

74 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

What  had  she  been  plotting  ?  A  letter  ?  Conveyed 
by  mademoiselle?     To  whom? 

Long  after  all  sounds  above  had  ceased  Ashe  still  lay 
awake,  thinking  of  the  story  he  had  heard  from  Lord 
Grosville.  Certainly,  if  he  had  known  it,  he  would 
never  have  gone  familiarly  to  Madame  d'Estrees'  house. 
Laxity,  for  a  man  of  his  type,  is  one  thing;  lying,  mean- 
ness, and  cruelty  are  another.  What  could  be  done  for 
this  poor  child  in  her  strange  and  sinister  position  ?  He 
was  ironically  conscious  of  a  sudden  heat  of  missionary 
zeal.  For  if  the  creature  to  be  saved  had  not  possessed 
such  a  pair  of  eyes — so  slim  a  neck — such  a  haunting 
and  teasing  personality — what  then  ? 

The  question  presently  plunged  with  him  into  sleep. 
But  he  had  not  forgotten  it  when  he  awoke. 

He  had  just  finished  dressing  next  morning,  when  he 
chanced  to  see  from  the  front  window  of  his  room,  which 
commanded  the  main  stretch  of  the  park,  the  figure  of  a 
lady  on  one  of  the  paths.  She  seemed  to  be  returning 
from  the  farther  end  of  a  long  avenue,  and  was  evidently 
hurrying  to  reach  the  house.  As  she  approached,  how- 
ever, she  turned  aside  into  a  shrubbery  walk  and  was 
soon  lost  to  view.  But  Ashe  had  recognized  Mademoi- 
selle D.  The  matter  of  the  letter  recurred  to  him.  He 
guessed  that  she  had  already  delivered  it.     But  where  ? 

At  breakfast  Lady  Kitty  did  not  appear.  Ashe  made 
inquiries  of  the  younger  Miss  Grosville,  who  replied  with 
some  tartness  that  she  supposed  Kitty  had  a  cold,  and 
hurried  off  herself  to  dress  for  Sunday-school.  It  was 
not  at  all  the  custom  for  young  ladies  to  breakfast  in  bed 
6  75 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

on  Sundays  at  Grosville  Park,  and  Lady  Grosville's  brow 
was  clouded.  Ashe  felt  it  a  positive  effort  to  tell  her 
that  he  was  not  going  to  church,  and  when  she  had 
marshalled  her  flock  and  carried  them  off,  those  left 
behind  knew  themselves,  indeed,  as  heathens  and  pub- 
licans. 

Ashe  wandered  out  with  some  official  papers  and  a 
pipe  into  the  spring  sunshine.  Mr.  Kershaw,  the  editor, 
would  gladly  have  caught  him  for  a  political  talk.  But 
Ashe  would  not  be  caught.  As  to  the  interests  of  Eng- 
land in  the  Persian  Gulf,  both  they  and  Mr.  Kershaw 
might  for  the  moment  go  hang.  Would  Lady  Kitty 
meet  him  in  the  old  garden  at  eleven-thirty,  or  would 
she  not?     That  was  the  only  thing  that  mattered. 

However,  it  was  still  more  than  an  hour  to  the  time 
mentioned.  Ashe  spent  a  while  in  roaming  a  wood 
delicately  pied  with  primroses  and  anemones,  and  then 
sauntered  back  into  the  gardens,  which  were  old  and 
famous. 

Suddenly,  as  he  came  upon  a  terrace  bordered  by  a 
thick  yew  hedge,  and  descending  by  steps  to  a  lower 
terrace,  he  became  aware  of  voices  in  a  strange  tone  and 
key — not  loud,  but,  as  it  were,  intensified  far  beyond  the 
note  of  ordinary  talk.  Ashe  stood  still ;  for  he  had  recog- 
nized the  voice  of  Lady  Kitty.  But  before  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  what  to  do  a  lady  began  to  ascend  the 
steps  which  connected  the  upper  terrace  with  the  lower. 
She  came  straight  towards  him,  and  Ashe  looked  at  her 
with  astonishment.  She  was  not  a  member  of  the 
Grosville  house  party,  and  Ashe  had  never  seen  her  be- 
fore. Yet  in  her  pale,  unhappy  face  there  was  some- 
thing that  recalled  another  person ;  something,  too,  in 

76 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

her  gait  and  her  passionate  energy  of  movement.  She 
swept  past  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  tall  and  thin, 
and  dressed  in  deep  mourning.  Her  eyes  were  set  on 
some  inner  vision;  he  felt  that  she  scarcely  saw  him. 
She  passed  like  an  embodied  grief — menacing  and  lam- 
entable. 

Something  like  a  cry  pursued  her  up  the  steps.  But 
she  did  not  turn.  She  walked  swiftly  on,  and  was  soon 
lost  to  sight  in  the  trees. 

Ashe  hesitated  a  moment,  then  hurried  down  the 
steps. 

On  a  stone  seat  beneath  the  yew  hedge,  Kitty  Bristol 
lay  prone.  He  heard  her  sobs,  and  they  went  most 
strangely  through  his  heart. 

"Lady  Kitty!"  he  said,  as  he  stood  beside  her  and 
bent  over  her. 

She  looked  up,  and  showed  no  surprise.  Her  face 
was  bathed  in  tears,  but  her  hand  sought  his  piteously 
and  drew  him  towards  her. 

"  I  have  seen  my  sister,"  she  said,  "and  she  hates  me. 
What  have  I  done?     I  think  I  shall  die  of  despair!" 


THE  effect  of  the  few  sobbing  words,  with  which 
Kitty  Bristol  had  greeted  his  presence  beside  her, 
upon  the  feehng  of  WilHam  Ashe  was  both  sharp  and 
deep,  for  they  seemed  already  to  imply  a  peculiar  rela- 
tion, a  special  litik  between  them.  Had  it  not,  indeed, 
begun  in  that  very  moment  at  St.  James's  Place  when 
he  had  first  caught  sight  of  her,  sitting  forlorn  in  her 
white  dress? — when  she  had  "willed"  him  to  come  to 
her,  and  he  came?  Surely — though  as  to  this  he  had 
his  qualms — she  could  not  have  spoken  with  this  aban- 
donment to  any  other  of  her  new  English  acquaintances  ? 
To  Darrell,  for  instance,  who  was  expected  at  Grosville 
Park  that  evening.  No!  From  the  beginning  she  had 
turned  to  him,  William  Ashe;  she  had  been  conscious  of 
the  same  mutual  understanding,  the  same  sympathy  in 
difference  that  he  himself  felt. 

It  was,  at  any  rate,  with  the  feeling  of  one  whose  fate 
has  most  strangely,  most  unexpectedly  overtaken  him 
that  he  sat  down  beside  her.  His  own  pulses  were  run- 
ning at  a  great  rate ;  but  there  was  to  be  no  sign  of  it  for 
her.  He  tried,  indeed,  to  calm  her  by  that  mere  cheerful 
strength  and  vitality  of  which  he  was  so  easily  master. 
"Why  should  you  be  in  despair?"  he  said,  bending 
towards  her.  "Tell  me.  Let  me  try  and  help  you. 
Was  your  sister  unkind  to  you?" 

78 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Kitty  made  no  reply  at  once.  The  tears  that  brimmed 
her  large  eyes  slipped  down  her  cheeks  without  disfigur- 
ing her.  She  was  looking  absently,  intently,  into  a  dark 
depth  of  wood  as  though  she  sought  there  for  some 
truth  that  escaped  her — truth  of  the  past  or  of  the 
present. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  at  last,  shaking  her  head, 
"I  don't  know  whether  it  was  unkind.  Perhaps  it  was 
only  what  we  deserve,  maman  and  I." 

"You!"  cried  Ashe. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  passionately.  "Who's  going  to  sepa- 
rate between  maman  and  me?  If  she's  done  mean, 
shocking  things,  the  people  she's  done  them  to  will  hate 
me  too.     They  shall  hate  me!     It's  right." 

She  turned  to  him  violently.  She  was  very  white, 
and  her  little  hands  as  she  sat  there  before  him,  proud- 
ly erect,  twisted  a  lace  handkerchief  between  them  that 
would  soon  be  in  tatters.  Somehow  Ashe  winced  before 
the  wreck  of  the  handkerchief;  what  need  to  ruin  the 
pretty,  fragile  thing? 

"I  am  quite  sure  no  one  will  ever  hate  you  for  what 
you  haven't  done,"  he  said,  steadily.  "That  would  be 
abominably  unfair.  But,  you  see,  I  don't  understand — 
and  I  don't  like — I  don't  wish — to  ask  questions." 

"Do  ask  questions!"  she  cried,  looking  at  him  almost 
reproachfully.  "That's  just  what  I  want  you  to  do — 
Only,"  she  added,  hanging  her  head  in  depression,  "I 
shouldn't  know  what  to  answer.  I  am  played  with,  and 
treated  as  a  baby!  There  is  something  horrible  the 
matter — and  no  one  trusts  me — every  one  keeps  me  in 
the  dark.  No  one  ever  thinks  whether  I  am  miserable 
or  not." 

79 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

She  raised  her  hands  to  her  eyes  and  vehemently 
wiped  away  her  tears  with  the  tattered  lace  handker- 
chief. In  all  these  words  and  actions,  however,  she  was 
graceful  and  touching,  because  she  was  natural.  She 
was  not  posing  or  conscious,  she  was  hiding  nothing. 
Yet  Ashe  felt  certain  she  could  act  a  part  magnificently  ; 
only  it  would  not  be  for  the  lie's  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of 
some  romantic  impulse  or  imagination. 

"  Why  should  you  torment  yourself  so  ?"  he  asked  her, 
kindly.  Her  hand  had  dropped  and  lay  beside  her  on 
the  bench.  To  his  own  amazement  he  found  himself 
clasping  it.  "Isn't  it  better  to  forget  old  griefs?  You 
can't  help  what  happened  years  ago — you  can't  undo  it. 
You've  got  to  live  your  own  life — happily!  And  I  just 
wish  you'd  set  about  it." 

He  smiled  at  her,  and  there  were  few  faces  more 
attractive  than  his  when  he  let  his  natural  softness  have 
its  way,  without  irony.  She  let  her  eyes  be  drawn  to  his, 
and  as  they  met  he  saw  a  flush  rise  in  her  clear  skin  and 
spread  to  the  pale  gold  of  her  hair.  The  man  in  him 
was  marvellously  pleased  by  that  flush  —  fascinated, 
indeed.  But  she  gave  him  small  time  to  observe  it; 
she  drew  herself  impatiently  away. 

"Of  course,  you  don't  understand  a  word  about  it," 
she  said,  "or  you  couldn't  talk  like  that.  But  I'll  tell 
you."  Her  eyes,  half  miserable,  half  audacious,  re- 
turned to  him.  "My  sister — came  here — because  I  sent 
for  her.  I  made  mademoiselle  go  with  a  letter.  Of 
course,  I  knew  there  was  a  mystery — I  knew  the  Gros- 
villes  did  not  want  us  to  meet — I  knew  that  she  and 
maman  hated  each  other.  But  maman  will  tell  me 
nothing — and  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

3p 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"No,  you  have  no  right  to  know,"  said  Ashe,  gravely. 

She  looked  at  him  wildly. 

"  I  have — I  have!"  she  repeated,  passionately.  "  Well, 
I  told  my  sister  to  meet  me  here — I  had  forgotten,  you 
see,  all  about  you!  My  mind  was  so  full  of  Alice.  And 
when  she  came  I  felt  as  if  it  was  a  dream — a  horrible, 
tragic  dream.  You  know — she  is  so  like  me — which 
means,  I  suppose,  that  we  are  both  like  papa.  Only  her 
face — it's  not  handsome,  oh  no — but  it's  stern — and — 
yes,  noble!  I  was  proud  of  her.  I  would  like  to  have 
gone  on  my  knee  and  kissed  her  dress.  But  she  would 
not  take  my  hand — she  would  hardly  speak  to  me.  She 
said  she  had  come,  because  it  was  best,  now  that  I  was 
in  England,  that  we  should  meet  once,  and  understand 
that  we  couldn't  meet — that  we  could  never,  never  be 
friends.  She  said  that  she  hated  my  mother — that  for 
years  she  had  kept  silence,  but  that  now  she  meant  to 
punish  maman — to  drive  her  from  London.  And  then" 
— the  girl's  lips  trembled  under  the  memory — "she  came 
close  to  me,  and  she  looked  into  my  eyes,  and  she  said, 
'Yes,  we're  like  each  other — we're  like  our  father — and 
it  would  be  better  for  us  both  if  we  had  never  been 
born — ' " 

"Ah,  cruel!"  cried  Ashe,  involuntarily,  and  once 
more  his  hand  found  Kitty's  small  fingers  and  pressed 
them  in  his. 

Kitty  looked  at  him  with  a  strange,  exalted  look. 

"No.  I  think  it's  true.  I  often  think  I'm  not  made 
to  be  happy.     I  can't  ever  be  happy — it's  not  in  me." 

"It's  in  you  to  say  foolish  things  then!"  said  Ashe, 
lightly,  and  crossing  his  arms  he  tried  to  assume  the 
practical  elder-brotherly  air,  which  he  felt  befitted  the 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

situation — if  anything  befitted  it.  For  in  truth  it  seem- 
ed to  him  one  singularly  confused  and  ugly.  Their  talk 
floated  above  tragic  depths,  guessed  at  by  him,  wholly 
unknown  to  her.  And  yet  her  youth  shrank  from  it 
knew  not  what — '^  as  an  animal  shrinks  from  shadows  in 
the  twilight."  She  seemed  to  him  to  sit  enwrapped  in 
a  vague  cloud  of  shame,  resenting  and  hating  it,  yet  not 
able  to  escape  from  thinking  and  talking  of  it.  But  she 
must  not  talk  of  it. 

She  did  not  answer  his  last  remark  for  a  little  while. 
She  sat  looking  before  her,  overwhelmed,  it  seemed,  by 
an  inward  rush  of  images  and  sensations.  Till,  with  a 
sudden  movement,  she  turned  to  him  and  said,  smiling, 
quite  in  her  ordinary  voice: 

"Do  you  know  why  I  shall  never  be  happy.''  It  is 
because  I  have  such  a  bad  temper." 

"Have  you?"  said  Ashe,  smiling. 

She  gave  him  a  curious  look. 

"You  don't  believe  it?  If  you  had  been  in  the  con- 
vent, you  would  have  believed  it.  I'm  mad  sometimes 
— quite  mad;  with  pride,  I  suppose,  and  vanity.  The 
Soeurs  said  it  was  that." 

"They  had  to  explain  it  somehow,"  said  Ashe.  "But 
I  am  quite  sure  that  if  I  lived  in  a  convent  I  should  have 
a  furious  temper." 

"You!"  she  said,  half  contemptuously.  "You 
couldn't  be  ill-tempered  anywhere.  That's  the  one 
thing  I  don't  like  about  you — you're  too  calm — too — 
too  satisfied.  It's —  Well!  you  said  a  sharp  thing  to 
me,  so  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  say  one  to  you.  You 
shouldn't  look  as  though  you  enjoyed  your  life  so 
much.    It's  bourgeois!    It  is,  indeed."    And  she  frowned 

82 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

upon  him  with  a  Httle  extravagant  air  that  amused 
him. 

By  some  prescience,  she  had  put  on  that  morning  a 
black  dress  of  thin  material,  made  with  extreme  sim- 
plicity. No  flounces,  no  fanfaronnade.  A  little  girlish 
dress,  that  made  the  girlish  figure  seem  even  frailer  and 
lighter  than  he  remembered  it  the  night  before  in  the 
splendors  of  her  Paris  gown.  Her  large  black  hat 
emphasized  the  whiteness  of  her  brow,  the  brilliance  of 
her  most  beautiful  eyes;  and  then  all  the  rest  was  in- 
substantial sprite  and  airy  nothing,  to  be  crushed  in 
one  hand.  And  yet  what  untamed,  indomitable  things 
breathed  from  it — a  self  surely  more  self,  more  intensely, 
obstinately  alive  than  any  he  had  yet  known. 

Her  attack  had  brought  the  involuntar}'-  blood  to  his 
cheeks,  which  annoyed  him.  But  he  invited  her  to  say 
why  cheerfulness  was  a  vice.  She  replied  that  no  one 
should  look  success — as  much  as  he  did. 

"And  you  scorn  success?" 

"Scorn  it!"  She  drew  a  long  breath,  clasped  both 
her  hands  above  her  head,  then  slowly  let  the  thin  arms 
fall  again.  "Scorn  it!  What  nonsense!  But  every- 
body who  hasn't  got  it  hates  those  who  have." 

"Don't  hate  me!"  said  Ashe,  quickly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  stubbornness,  "I  must.  Do 
you  know  why  I  \vas  such  a  wild-cat  at  school  ?  Because 
some  of  the  other  girls  were  more  important  than  I — 
much  more  important — and  richer — and  more  beautiful 
— and  people  paid  them  more  attention.  And  that 
seemed  to  burn  the  heart  in  me."  She  pressed  her  hands 
to  her  breast  with  a  passionate  gesture.  "You  know 
the  French  word  panache?     Well,  that's  what  I  care  for 

83 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

— that's  what  I  adore!  To  be  the  first — the  best — the 
most  distinguished.  To  be  envied — and  pointed  at — 
obeyed  when  I  hft  my  finger — and  then  to  come  to  some 
great,  glorious,  tragic  end!" 

Ashe  moved  impatiently. 

"Lady  Kitty,  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  like  this. 
It's  wild,  and  it's  also — I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"In  bad  taste?"  she  said,  catching  him  up  breath- 
lessly. "That's  what  you  meant,  isn't  it?  You  said  it 
to  me  before,  when  I  called  you  handsome." 

"Pshaw!"  he  said,  in  vexation.  She  watched  him 
throw  himself  back  and  feel  for  his  cigarette-case;  a 
gesture  of  her  hand  gave  him  leave;  she  waited,  smiling, 
till  he  had  taken  a  few  calming  whiffs.  Then  she  gently 
moved  towards  him. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me!"  she  said,  in  a  sweet,  low 
voice.  "  Don't  you  understand  how  hard  it  is — to  have 
that  nature — and  then  to  come  here  out  of  the  convent — 
where  one  had  lived  on  dreams — and  find  one's  self — " 

She  turned  her  head  away.  Ashe  put  down  his  new- 
lit  cigarette. 

"Find  yourself?"  he  repeated. 

"  Everybody  scorns  me!"  she  said,  her  brow  drooping. 

Ashe  exclaimed. 

"You  know  it's  true.  My  mother  is  not  received. 
Can  you  deny  that?" 

"She  has  many  friends,"  said  Ashe. 

"She  is  not  received.  When  I  speak  of  her  no  one 
answers  me.  Lady  Grosville  asked  me  here — me — out  of 
charity.  It  would  be  thought  a  disgrace  to  marry 
me—" 

"Look  here,  Lady  Kitty!—" 

84 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"And  I" — she  wrung  her  small  hands,  as  though  she 
clasped  the  necks  of  her  enemies — "I  would  never  look 
at  a  man  who  did  not  think  it  the  glory  of  his  life  to  win 
me.  So  you  see,  I  shall  never  marry.  But  then  the 
dreadful  thing  is — " 

She  let  him  see  a  white,  stormy  face. 

"That  I  have  no  loyalty  to  maman — I — I  don't  think 
I  even  love  her." 

Ashe  surveyed  her  gravely. 

"You  don't  mean  that,"  he  said. 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  persisted.  "I  had  a  horrid  child- 
hood. I  won't  tell  tales;  but,  you  see,  I  don't  kiiow 
maman.  I  know  the  Soeurs  much  better.  And  then  for 
some  one  you  don't  know — to  have  to — to  have  to  bear 
— this  horrible  thing — " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Ashe  looked  at  her 
in  perplexity. 

"You  sha'n't  bear  anything  horrible,"  he  said,  with 
energy.  "There  are  plenty  of  people  who  will  take  care 
of  that.  Do  you  mind  telling  me— have  there  been 
special  difficulties  just  lately?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  calmly,  looking  up,  "awful! 
Maman's  debts  are — well — ridiculous.  For  that  alone  I 
don't  think  she'll  be  able  to  stay  in  London— apart  from 
—Alice." 

The  name  recalled  all  she  had  just  passed  through, 
and  her  face  quivered.  "What  will  she  do?"  she  said, 
under  her  breath.  "  How  will  she  punish  us  ? — and  why  ? 
— for  what?" 

Her  dread,  her  ignorance,  her  fierce,  bruised  vanity, 
her  struggling  pride,  her  helplessness,  appealed  amaz- 
ingly to  the  man  beside  her.     He  began  to  talk  to  her 

85 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

very  gently  and  wisely,  begging  her  to  let  the  past  alone, 
to  think  only  what  could  be  done  to  help  the  present. 
In  the  first  place,  would  she  not  let  his  mother  be  of  use 
to  her? 

He  could  answer  for  Lady  Tranmore.  Why  shouldn't 
Lady  Kitty  spend  the  summer  with  her  in  Scotland  ? 
No  doubt  Madame  d'Estrees  would  be  abroad. 

"Then  I  must  go  with  her,"  said  Kitty. 

Ashe  hesitated. 

"Of  course,  if  she  wishes  it." 

"But  I  don't  know  that  she  will  wish  it.  She  is  not 
very  fond  of  me,"  said  Kitty,  doubtfully.  "Yes,  I 
would  like  to  stay  with  Lady  Tranmore.  But  will  your 
cousin  be  there  ?" 

"MissLyster?" 

Kitty  nodded. 

"How  can  I  tell?     Of  course,  she  is  often  there." 

"It  is  quite  curious,"  said  Kitty,  after  reflection, 
"how  we  dislike  each  other.  And  it  is  so  odd.  You 
know  most  people  like  me!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  without  a  trace  of  coquetry, 
rather  with  a  certain  timidity  that  feared  possible  rebuff. 
"That's  always  been  my  difficulty,"  she  went  on,  "till 
now.  Everybody  spoils  m.e.  I  always  get  my  own  way. 
In  the  convent  I  was  indulged  and  flattered,  and  then 
they  wondered  that  I  made  all  sorts  of  follies.  I  want  a 
guide — that's  quite  certain — somebody  to  tell  me  what 
to  do." 

"I  would  offer  myself  for  the  post,"  said  Ashe,  "but 
that  I  feel  perfectly  sure  that  you  would  never  follow 
anybody's  advice  in  anything." 

"Yes,  I  would,"  she  said,  wistfully.     "I  would — " 

86 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Ashe's  face  changed. 

"Ah,  if  you  would — " 

She  sprang  up.  "  Do  you  see  " — she  pointed  to  some 
figures  on  a  distant  path — "they  are  coming  back  from 
church.  You  understand  ? — nobody  must  know  about 
my  sister.  It  will  come  round  to  Aunt  Lina,  of  course; 
but  I  hope  it  '11  be  when  I'm  gone.  If  she  knew  now,  I 
should  go  back  to  London  to-day." 

Ashe  made  it  clear  to  her  that  he  would  be  discretion 
itself.  They  left  the  bench,  but,  as  they  began  to  ascend 
the  steps,  Kitty  turned  back. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  seen  her,"  she  said,  in  a  miserable 
tone,  the  tears  flooding  once  more  into  her  eyes. 

Ashe  looked  at  her  with  great  kindness,  but  without 
speaking.  The  moment  of  sharp  pain  passed,  and  she 
moved  on  languidly  beside  him.  But  there  was  an 
infection  in  his  strong,  handsome  presence,  and  her  smiles 
soon  came  back.  By  the  time  they  neared  the  house, 
indeed,  she  seemed  to  be  in  wild  spirits  again. 

Did  he  know,  she  asked  him,  that  three  more  guests 
were  coming  that  afternoon — Mr.  Darrell,  Mr.  Louis 
Harman,  and  —  Mr.  Geoffrey  Cliffe?  She  laid  an  em- 
phasis on  the  last  name,  which  made  Ashe  say,  care- 
lessly : 

"You  want  to  meet  him  so  much?" 

"Of  course.     Doesn't  all  the  world?" 

Ashe  replied  that  he  could  only  answer  for  himself, 
and  as  far  as  he  was  concerned  he  could  do  very  well 
without  Cliffe's  company  at  all  times. 

Whereupon  Kitty  protested  with  fire  that  other 
men  were  jealous  of  such  a  famous  person  because 
women  liked  him — because — 

87 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Because  the  man's  a  coxcomb  and  the  women  spoil 
him?" 

"A  coxcomb!" 

Kitty  was  up  in  arms. 

"  Pray,  is  he  not  a  great  traveller? — a  very  great  trav-, 
eller?"  she  asked,  with  indignation. 

"Certainly,  by  his  own  account." 

"And  a  most  brilliant  writer?" 

"Macaulayese,"  said  Ashe,  perversely,  "and  not  very 
good  at  that." 

Kitty  was  at  first  struck  dumb,  and  then  began 
a  voluble  protest  against  unfairness  so  monstrous. 
Did  not  all  intelligent  people  read  and  admire  ?  It  was 
mere  jealousy,  she  repeated,  to  deny  the  gentleman's 
claims. 

Ashe  let  her  talk  and  quote  and  excite  herself,  apply- 
ing every  now  and  then  a  little  sly  touch  of  the  goad,  to 
make  her  still  run  on,  and  so  forget  the  tragic  hour  which 
had  overshadowed  her.  And  meanwhile  all  he  cared  for 
was  to  watch  the  flashing  of  her  face  and  eyes,  and  the 
play  of  the  wind  in  her  hair,  and  the  springing  grace 
with  which  she  moved.  Poor  child!- — it  all  came  back  to 
that — poor  child! — what  was  to  be  done  with  her? 

At  luncheon — the  Sunday  luncheon — which  still,  at 
Grosville  Park,  as  in  the  early  Victorian  days  of  Lord 
Grosville's  mother,  consisted  of  a  huge  baronial  sirloin  to 
which  all  else  upon  the  varied  table  appeared  as  appur- 
tenance and  appendage,  Ashe  allowed  himself  the  in- 
ward reflection  that  the  Grosville  Park  Sundays  were 
degenerating.  Both  Lord  and  Lady  Grosville  had  been 
good  hosts  in  their  day;   and  the  downrightness  of  the 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

wife  had  been  as  much  to  the  taste  of  many  as  the  agree- 
able gossip  of  the  husband.  But  on  this  occasion  both 
were  silent  and  absent-minded.  Lady  Grosville  showed 
no  generalship  in  placing  her  guests;  the  wrong  people 
sat  next  to  each  other,  and  the  whole  party  dragged — 
without  a  leader. 

And  certainly  Kitty  Bristol  did  nothing  to  enliven  it. 
She  sat  very  silent,  her  black  dress  changing  her  a  good 
deal,  to  Ashe's  thinking,  bringing  back,  as  he  chose  to 
fancy,  the  pale  convent  girl.  Was  it  so  that  she  went 
through  her  pious  exercises? — by-the-way,  she  was,  of 
course,  a  Catholic? — said  her  lessons,  and  went  to  her 
confessor?  Had  the  French  cousin  with  whom  she  rode 
stag-hunting  ever  seen  her  like  this  ?  No ;  Ashe  felt 
certain  that  "Henri"  had  never  seen  her,  except  as  a 
fashion-plate,  or  en  amazone.  He  could  have  made 
nothing  of  this  ghost  in  black  —  this  distinguished, 
piteous,  little  ghost. 

After  luncheon  it  became  tolerably  clear  to  Ashe  that 
Lady  Grosville's  preoccupation  had  a  cause.  And  pres- 
ently catching  him  alone  in  the  library,  whither  he  had 
retired  with  some  official  papers,  she  closed  the  door  with 
deliberate  care,  and  stood  before  him. 

"I  see  you  are  interested  in  Kitty,  and  I  feel  as  if  I 
must  tell  you,  and  ask  your  opinion.  WiUiam,  do  you 
know  what  that  child  has  been  doing?" 

He  looked  up  from  his  writing. 

"Ah! — what  have  you  been  discovering?" 

"Grosville  told  you  the  story  last  night." 

Ashe  nodded. 

"Well — Kitty  wrote  to  Alice  this  morning — and  they 
met.     Alice  has  kept  her  room  since — prostrate — so  the 

89 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Sowerbys  tell  me.  I  have  just  had  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Sowerby.  Wasn't  it  an  extraordinary,  an  indelicate 
thing  to  do?" 

Ashe  studied  the  frowning  lady  a  moment — so  large 
and  daunting  in  her  black  silk  and  white  lace.  She 
seemed  to  suggest  all  those  aspects  of  the  English  Sun- 
day for  which  he  had  most  secret  dislike — its  Pharisaism 
and  dulness  and  heavy  meals.  He  felt  himself  through 
and  through  Lady  Kitty's  champion. 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  very  natural,"  was  his  reply. 

Lady  Grosville  threw  up  her  hands. 

"Natural! — when  she  knows — " 

"How  can  she  know?"  cried  Ashe,  hotly.  "How  can 
such  a  child  know  or  guess  anything  ?  She  only  knows 
that  there  is  some  black  charge  against  her  mother,  on 
which  no  one  will  enlighten  her.  How  can  they  ?  But 
meanwhile  her  mother  is  ostracized,  and  she  feels  herself 
dragged  into  the  disgrace,  not  understanding  why  or 
wherefore.  Could  anything  be  more  pathetic — more 
touching?" 

In  his  heat  of  feeling  he  got  up,  and  began  to  pace 
up  and  down.  Lady  Grosville's  countenance  expressed 
first  astonishment — then  wavering. 

"Oh — of  course,  it's  very  sad,"  she  said — "extremely 
sad.  But  I  should  have  thought  Kitty  was  clever  enough 
to  understand  at  least  that  Alice  must  have  some  grave 
reason  for  breaking  with  her  mother — " 

"Don't  you  all  forget  what  a  child  she  is,"  said  Ashe, 
indignantly — "not  yet  nineteen!" 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  said  Lady  Grosville,  grudgingly. 
"I  must  confess  I  find  it  difficult  to  judge  her  fairly. 
She's  so  different  from  my  own  girls." 

90 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Ashe  hastily  agreed.  Then  it  struck  him  as  odd  that 
he  should  have  fallen  so  quickly  into  this  position  of 
Kitty's  defender  with  her  father's  family;  and  he  drew 
in  his  horns.  He  resumed  his  work,  and  Lady  Grosville 
sat  for  a  while,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  quietly  observing 
him. 

At  last  she  said: 

"So  you  think,  WilUam,  I  had  better  leave  Kitty 
alone?" 

"About  what?"  Ashe  raised  his  curly  head  with  a 
laugh.  "Don't  put  too  much  responsibility  on  me.  I 
know  nothing  about  young  ladies." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do — much,"  said  Lady  Grosville, 
candidly.     "My  own  daughters  are  so  exceptional." 

Ashe  held  his  peace.  Distant  cousins  as  they  were, 
he  hardly  knew  the  Grosville  girls  apart,  and  had  never 
yet  grasped  any  reason  why  he  should. 

"At  any  rate,  I  see  clearly,"  said  Lady  Grosville,  after 
another  pause,  "that  you're  very  sorry  for  Kitty.  Of 
course,  it's  very  nice  of  you,  and  I  find  it's  what  most 
people  feel." 

"Hang  it!  dear  Lady  Grosville,  why  shouldn't  they?" 
said  Ashe,  turning  round  on  his  chair.  "If  ever  there 
was  a  forlorn  little  person  on  earth,  I  thought  Lady  Kitty 
was  that  person  at  lunch  to-day." 

"And  after  that  absurd  exhibition  last  night!"  said 
Lady  Grosville,  with  a  shrug.  "You  never  know  where 
to  have  her.     You  think  she  looked  ill?" 

"I  am  sure  she  has  got  a  splitting  headache,"  said 
Ashe,  boldly.  "And  why  you  and  Grosville  shouldn't 
be  as  sorry  for  her  as  for  Lady  Alice  I  can't  imagine. 
She's  done  nothing." 

7  91 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"No,  that's  true,"  said  Lady  Grosville,  as  she  rose. 
Then  she  added:  "I'll  go  and  see  if  she  has  a  headache. 
You  must  consult  with  us,  William;  you  know  the 
mother  so  well." 

"Oh,  I'm  no  good!"  said  Ashe,  with  energy.  "But 
I'm  sure  that  kindness  would  pay  with  Lady  Kitty."  . 

He  smiled  at  her,  wishing  to  heaven  she  would  go. 

Lady  Grosville  stared. 

"I  hope  we  are  always  kind  to  her,"  she  said,  with  a 
touch  of  haughtiness.  And  then  the  library  door  closed 
behind  her. 

"Kindness"  was  indeed,  that  afternoon,  the  order  of 
the  day,  as  from  the  Grosvilles  to  Lady  Kitty.  Ashe 
wondered  how  she  liked  it.  The  girls  followed  her 
about  with  shawls.  Lady  Grosville  installed  her  on  a 
sofa  in  the  back  drawing-room.  A  bottle  of  sal-volatile 
appeared,  and  Caroline  Grosville,  instead  of  going  twice 
to  Sunday-school,  devoted  herself  to  fanning  Kitty, 
though  the  weather — which  was  sunny,  with  a  sharp 
east  wind — suggested,  to  Ashe's  thinking,  fires  rather 
than  fans. 

He  was  himself  carried  off  for  the  customary  Sunday 
walk,  Mr.  Kershaw  being  now  determined  to  claim  the 
sacred  rights  of  the  press.  The  walkers  left  the  house  by 
a  garden  door,  to  reach  which  they  had  to  pass  through 
the  farther  drawing-room.  Kitty,  a  picturesque  figure 
on  the  sofa,  nodded  farewell  to  Ashe,  and  then,  unseen  by 
Caroline  Grosville,  who  sat  behind  her,  shot  him  a  last 
look  which  drove  him  to  a  precipitate  exit  lest  the  in- 
ward laugh  should  out. 

The  walk  through  the  fiat  Cambridgeshire  country  was 

92 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

long  and  strenuous.  Though  for  at  least  half  of  it  the 
active  journalist  who  was  Ashe's  companion  conceived 
the  poorest  opinion  of  the  new  minister.  Ashe  knew 
nothing;  had  no  opinions;  cared  for  nothing,  except 
now  and  then  for  the  stalking  of  an  unfamiliar  bird,  or 
the  antics  of  the  dogs,  or  tales  of  horse-racing,  of  which 
he  talked  with  a  fervor  entirely  denied  to  those  high 
political  topics  of  which  Kershaw's  ardent  soul  was  full. 

Again  and  again  did  the  journalist  put  them  under  his 
nose  in  their  most  attractive  guise.  In  vain;  Ashe 
would  have  none  of  them.  Till  suddenly  a  chance  word 
started  an  Indian  frontier  question,  vastly  important, 
and  totally  unknown  to  the  English  public.  Ashe  cas- 
ually began  to  talk;  the  trickle  became  a  stream,  and 
presently  he  was  holding  forth  with  an  impetuosity,  a 
knowledge,  a  matured  and  careful  judgment  that  fairly 
amazed  the  man  beside  him. 

The  long  road,  bordered  by  the  flat  fen  meadows, 
the  wide  silver  sky,  the  gently  lengthening  day,  all  passed 
unnoticed.  The  journalist  found  himself  in  the  grip  of  a 
mind — strong,  active,  rich.  He  gave  himself  up  with 
docility,  yet  with  a  growing  astonishment,  and  when  they 
stood  once  more  on  the  steps  of  the  house  he  said  to  his 
companion: 

"You  must  have  followed  these  matters  for  years. 
Why  have  you  never  spoken  in  the  House,  or  written 
anything?" 

Ashe's  aspect  changed  at  once. 

"What  would  have  been  the  good?"  he  said,  with  his 
easy  smile.  "The  fellows  who  didn't  know  wouldn't 
have  believed  me;  and  the  fellows  who  knew  didn't  want 
telling." 

9i 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

A  shade  of  impatience  showed  in  Kershaw's  aspect. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  "ours  was  government  by  dis- 
cussion." 

Ashe  laughed,  and,  turning  on  the  steps,  he  pointed  to 
the  splendid  gardens  and  finely  wooded  park. 

' '  Or  government  by  country-houses — which  ?  If  you 
support  us  in  this — as  I  gather  you  will — this  walk  will 
have  been  worth  a  debate — now  won't  it?" 

The  flattered  journalist  smiled,  and  they  entered  the 
house.  From  the  inner  hall  Lord  Grosville  perceived 
them. 

"Geoffrey  Cliffe's  arrived,"  he  said  to  Ashe,  as  they 
reached  him. 

"Has  he?"  said  Ashe,  and  turned  to  go  up-stairs. 

But  Kershaw  showed  a  lively  interest.  "You  mean 
the  traveller?"  he  asked  of  his  host. 

"I  do.  As  mad  as  usual,"  said  the  old  man.  "He 
and  my  niece  Kitty  make  a  pair." 


VI 


WHEN  Ashe  returned  to  the  drawing-room  he  found 
it  filled  with  the  sound  of  talk  and  laughter.  But 
it  was  a  talk  and  laughter  in  which  the  Grosville  family- 
seemed  to  have  itself  but  little  part.  Lady  Grosville 
sat  stiffly  on  an  early  Victorian  sofa,  her  spectacles  on 
her  nose,  reading  the  Times  of  the  preceding  day,  or  ap- 
pearing to  read  it.  Amy  Grosville,  the  eldest  girl,  was 
busy  in  a  corner,  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  a  piece 
of  illumination;  while  Caroline,  seated  on  the  floor,  was 
showing  the  small  child  of  a  neighbor  how  to  put  a 
picture-puzzle  together.  Lord  Grosville  was  professedly 
in  a  farther  room,  talking  with  the  Austrian  count;  but 
every  other  minute  he  strolled  restlessly  into  the  big 
drawing-room,  and  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  talk  and 
laughter,  only  to  turn  on  his  heel  again  and  go  back  to 
the  count — who  meanwhile  appeared  in  the  opening  be- 
tween the  two  rooms,  his  hands  on  his  hips,  eagerly 
watching  Kitty  Bristol  and  her  companions,  while  wait- 
ing, as  courtesy  bade  him,  for  the  return  of  his  host. 

Ashe  at  once  divined  that  the  Grosville  family  were 
in  revolt.     Nor  had  he  to  look  far  to  discover  the  cause. 

Was  that  astonishing  young  lady  in  truth  identical 
with  the  pensive  figure  of  the  morning?  Kitty  had 
doffed  her  black,  and  she  wore  a  "  demi-toilette  "  gown 
of  the  utmost  elegance,  of  which  the  expensiveness  had, 

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The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

no  doubt,  already  sunk  deep  into  Lady  Grosville's  soul. 
At  Grosville  Park  the  new  fashion  of  "tea-gowns"  was 
not  favorably  regarded.  It  was  thought  to  be  a  mere 
device  of  silly  and  extravagant  women,  and  an  "after- 
noon dress,"  though  of  greater  pretensions  than  a  morn- 
ing gown,  was  still  a  sober  affair,  not  in  any  way  to  be 
confounded  with  those  decorative  effects  that  nature 
and  sound  sense  reserved  for  the  evening. 

But  Kitty's  dress  was  of  some  white  silky  material; 
and  it  displayed  her  slender  throat  and  some  portion  of 
her  thin  white  arms.  The  Dean's  wife,  Mrs.  Winston,  as 
she  secretly  studied  it,  felt  an  inward  satisfaction;  for 
here  at  last  was  one  of  those  gowns  she  had  once  or  twice 
gazed  on  with  a  covetous  awe  in  the  shop-windows  of  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix,  brought  down  to  earth,  and  clothing  a 
simple  mortal.  They  were  then  real,  and  they  could  be 
worn  by  real  women;  which  till  now  the  Dean's  wife 
had  scarcely  believed. 

Alack!  how  becoming  were  these  concoctions  to 
minxes  with  fair  hair  and  sylphlike  frames!  Kitty  was 
radiant,  triumphant;  and  Ashe  was  certain  that  Lady 
Grosville  knew  it,  however  she  might  barricade  herself 
behind  the  Times.  The  girl's  shm  fingers  gesticulated  in 
aid  of  her  tongue;  one  tiny  foot  swung  lightly  over  the 
other ;  the  glistening  folds  of  the  silk  wrapped  her  in  a 
shimmering  whiteness,  above  which  the  fair  head — 
negligently  thrown  back — shone  out  on  a  red  back- 
ground, made  by  the  velvet  chair  in  which  she  sat. 

The  Dean  was  placed  close  beside  her,  and  was  clearly 
enjoying  himself  enormously.  And  in  front  of  her,  ab- 
sorbed in  her,  engaged,  indeed,  in  hot  and  furious  de- 
bate with  her,  stood  the  great  man  who  had  just  arrived. 

96 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  How  do  you  do,  Cliffe  ?"  said  Ashe,  as  he  approached. 
Geoffrey    Chffe    turned    sharply,    and    a   perfunctory 
greeting  passed  between  the  two  men. 

"When  did  you  arrive?"  said  Ashe,  as  he  threw  him- 
self into  an  arm-chair. 

"Last  Tuesday.  But  that  don't  matter,"  said  Cliffe, 
impatiently — "nothing  matters — except  that  I  must 
somehow  defeat  Lady  Kitty!" 

And  he  stood,  looking  down  upon  the  girl  in  front  of 
him,  his  hands  on  his  sides,  his  queer  countenance 
twitching  with  suppressed  laughter.  An  odd  figure, 
tall,  spare,  loosely  jointed,  surmounted  by  a  pale  parch- 
ment face,  which  showed  a  somewhat  protruding  chin,  a 
long  and  delicate  nose,  and  fine  brows  under  a  strange 
overhanging  mass  of  fair  hair.  He  had  the  dissipated, 
battered  look  of  certain  Vandyck  cavaliers,  and  certainly 
no  handsomeness  of  any  accepted  kind.  But  as  Ashe 
well  knew,  the  aspect  and  personality  of  Geoffrey  Cliffe 
possessed  for  innumerable  men  and  women,  in  English 
"society"  and  out  of  it,  a  fascination  it  was  easier  to 
laugh  at  than  to  explain. 

Lady  Kitty  had  eyes  certainly  for  no  one  else.  When 
he  spoke  of  "defeating"  her,  she  laughed  her  defiance, 
and  a  glance  of  battle  passed  between  her  and  Cliffe. 
Cliffe,  still  holding  her  with  his  look,  considered  what 
new  ground  to  break. 

"What  is  the  subject?"  said  Ashe. 

"That  men  are  vainer  than  women,"  said  Kitty. 
"It's  so  true,  it's  hardly  worth  saying — isn't  it?  Mr. 
Cliffe  talks  nonsense  about  our  love  of  clothes — and  of 
being  admired.  As  if  that  were  vanity!  Of  course  it's 
only  our  sense  of  duty." 

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The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Duty?"  cried  Cliffe,  twisting  his  mustache.  "To 
whom  ?" 

"To  the  men,  of  course!  If  we  didn't  Hke  clothes,  if 
we  didn't  like  being  admired — where  would  you  be?" 

"Personally,  I  could  get  on,"  said  Cliffe.  "You  ex- 
pect us  to  be  too  much  on  our  knees." 

"As  if  we  should  ever  get  you  there  if  it  didn't  amuse 
you!"  said  Kitty.  "Hypocrites!  If  we  don't  dress, 
paint,  chatter,  and  tell  lies  for  you,  you  won't  look  at  us 
— and  if  we  do — " 

"Of  course,  it  all  depends  on  how  well  it's  done," 
threw  in  Cliffe. 

Kitty  laughed. 

"That's  judging  by  results.  I  look  to  the  motive. 
I  repeat,  if  I  powder  and  paint,  it's  not  because  I'm 
vain,  but  because  it's  my  painful  duty  to  give  you 
pleasure." 

"And  if  it  doesn't  give  me  pleasure?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Call  me  stupid  then — not  vain.  I  ought  to  have 
done  it  better." 

"In  any  case,"  said  Ashe,  "it's  your  duty  to  please 
us?" 

"Yes — "  sighed  Kitty.     "Worse  luck!" 

And  she  sank  softly  back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes 
shining  under  the  stimulus  of  the  laugh  that  ran  through 
her  circle.  The  Dean  joined  in  it  uneasily,  conscious,  no 
doubt,  of  the  sharp,  crackling  movements  by  which  in  the 
distance  Lady  Grosville  was  dumbly  expressing  herself — ■ 
through  the  Times.  Cliffe  looked  at  the  small  figure  a 
moment,  then  seized  a  chair  and  sat  down  in  front  of 
her,  astride. 

98 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"I  wonder  why  you  want  to  please  us?"  he  said, 
abruptly,  his  magnificent  blue  eyes  upon  her. 

"Ah!"  said  Kitty,  throwing  up  her  hands,  "if  we  only 
knew!" 

"You  find  it  in  the  tragedy  of  your  sex  ?" 

"Or  comedy,"  said  the  Dean,  rising.  "I  take  you  at 
your  word.  Lady  Kitty.  To-night  it  will  be  your  duty  to 
please  me.  Remember,  you  promised  to  say  us  some 
more  French."     He  lifted  an  admonitory  finger. 

"I  don't  know  any  'Athalie,'"  said  Kitty,  demurely, 
crossing  her  hands  upon  her  knee. 

The  Dean  smiled  to  himself  as  he  crossed  the  room 
to  Lady  Grosville,  and  endeavored  by  an  impartial 
criticism  of  the  new  curate's  manner  and  voice,  as  they 
had  revealed  themselves  in  church  that  morning,  to 
distract  her  attention  from  her  niece. 

A  hopeless  task — for  Kitty's  personality  was  of  the 
kind  which  absorbs,  engulfs  attention,  do  what  the  by- 
stander will.  Eyes  and  ears  were  drawn  perforce  into 
the  little  whirlpool  that  she  made,  their  owners  yielding 
them,  now  with  delight,  now  with  repulsion. 

Mary  L5^ster,  for  instance,  came  in  presently,  fresh 
from  a  walk  with  Lady  Edith  Manley.  She,  too,  had 
changed  her  dress.  But  it  was  a  discreet  and  reasonable 
change,  and  Lady  Grosville  looked  at  her  soft  gray  gown 
with  its  muslin  collar  and  cuffs — delicately  embroidered, 
yet  of  a  nunlike  cut  and  air  notwithstanding — with  a  hot 
energy  of  approval,  provoked  entirely  by  Kitty's  audaci- 
ties. Mary  meanwhile  raised  her  eyebrows  gently  at  the 
sight  of  Kitty.  She  swept  past  the  group,  giving  a  cool 
greeting  to  Geoffrey  Cliffe,  and  presently  settled  herself 
in  the  farther  room,  attended  by  Louis  Harman  and 

99 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Darrell,  who  had  just  arrived  by  the  afternoon  train. 
Clearly  she  observed  Kitty  and  observed  her  with  dislike. 
The  attitude  of  her  companions  was  not  so  simple. 

"What  an  amazing  young  woman!"  said  Harman, 
presently,  under  his  breath,  yet  open-mouthed.  "I 
suppose  she  and  Cliffe  are  old  friends." 

"I  believe  they  never  met  before,"  said  Mary. 

Darrell  laughed. 

"Lady  Kitty  makes  short  work  of  the  preliminaries," 
he  said;  "she  told  me  the  other  night  life  wasn't  long 
enough  to  begin  with  talk  about  the  weather." 

"The  weather?"  said  Harm.an.  "At  the  present 
moment  she  and  ClifEe  seem  to  be  discussing  the  '  Dame 
aux  Camelias.'  Since  when  do  they  take  young  girls  to 
see  that  kind  of  thing  in  Paris?" 

Miss  Lyster  gave  a  little  cough,  and  bending  forward 
said  to  Harman:  "Lady  Tranmore  has  shown  me  your 
picture.  It  is  a  dear,  delicious  thing!  I  never  saw  any- 
thing more  heavenly  than  the  angel." 

Harman  smiled  a  flattered  smile.  Mary  Lyster  re- 
ferred to  a  copy  of  a  "  Filippo  Lippi  Annunciation  "  which 
he  had  just  executed  in  water-color  for  Lady  Tranmore, 
to  whom  he  was  devoted.  He  was,  however,  devoted  to 
a  good  many  peeresses,  with  whom  he  took  tea,  and  for 
whom  he  undertook  many  harmless  and  elegant  services. 
He  painted  their  portraits,  in  small  size,  after  pre- 
Raphaelite  models,  and  he  occasionally  presented  them 
with  copies — a  little  weak,  but  charming — of  their  fa- 
vorite Italian  pictures.  He  and  Mary  began  now  to  talk 
of  Florence  with  much  enthusiasm  and  many  caressing 
adjectives.  For  Harman  most  things  were  "  sweet " ;  for 
Mary,  "interesting"  or  "suggestive."     She  talked  fast 

lOO 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

and  fluently ;  a  subtle  observer  might  have  guessed  she 
wished  it  to  be  seen  that  for  her  Lady  Kitty  Bristol's 
flirtations,  be  they  in  or  out  of  taste,  were  simply  non- 
existent. 

Darrell  listened  intermittently,  watched  ClifEe  and 
Lady  Kitty,  and  thought  a  good  deal.  That  extraor- 
dinary girl  was  certainly  "carrying  on"  with  Cliffe,  as 
she  had  "carried  on"  with  Ashe  on  the  night  of  her  first 
acquaintance  with  him  in  St.  James's  Place.  Ashe 
apparently  took  it  with  equanimity,  for  he  was  still 
sitting  beside  the  pair,  twisting  a  paper-knife  and  smiling, 
sometimes  putting  in  a  word,  but  more  often  silent,  and 
apparently  of  no  account  at  all  to  either  Kitty  or  Cliflfe. 

Darrell  knew  that  the  new  minister  disliked  and 
despised  Geoffrey  Cliffe;  he  was  aware,  too,  that  Cliffe 
returned  these  sentiments,  and  was  not  unlikely  to  be 
found  attacking  Ashe  in  public  before  long  on  certain 
points  of  foreign  policy,  where  Cliffe  conceived  himself 
to  be  a  master.  The  meeting  of  the  two  men  under  the 
Grosvilles'  roof  struck  Darrell  as  curious.  Why  had  Cliffe 
been  invited  by  these  very  respectable  ,and  straitlaced 
people  the  Grosvilles  ?  Darrell  could  only  reflect  that 
Lady  Eleanor  Cliffe,  the  traveller's  mother,  was  probably 
connected  with  them  by  some  of  those  innumerable  and 
ever-ramifying  links  that  hold  together  a  certain  large 
group  of  English  families;  and  that,  moreover,  Lady 
Grosville,  in  spite  of  philanthropy  and  Evangelicalism, 
had  always  shown  a  rather  pronounced  taste  in  "lions" 
— of  the  masculine  sort.  Of  the  women  to  be  met  with 
at  Grosville  Park,  one  could  be  certain.  Lady, Grosville 
made  no  excuses  for  her  own  sex.  But  she  was  a  suffi- 
ciently ambitious  hostess  to  know  that  agreeable  parties 

lOI 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

are  not  constructed  out  of  the  saints  alone.  The  men, 
therefore,  must  provide  the  sinners;  and  of  some  of  the 
persons  then  most  in  vogue  she  was  careful  not  to  know 
too  much.  For,  socially,  one  must  live;  and  that  being 
so,  the  strictness  of  to-day  may  have  at  any  moment  to 
be  purchased  by  the  laxity  of  to-morrow.  Such,  at  any 
rate,  was  Darrell's  analysis  of  the  situation. 

He  was  still  astonished,  however,  when  all  was 
said.  For  Cliffe  during  the  preceding  winter,  on  his 
return  from  some  remarkable  travels  in  Persia,  had 
paused  on  the  Riviera,  and  an  affair  at  Cannes  with  a 
French  vicomtesse  had  got  into  the  English  papers. 
No  one  knew  the  exact  truth  of  it;  and  a  small  volume 
of  verse  by  Cliffe,  published  immediately  afterwards — 
verse  very  distinguished,  passionate,  and  obscure — had 
offered  many  clews,  but  no  solution  whatever.  Nobody 
supposed,  however,  that  the  story  was  anything  but  a 
bad  one.  Moreover,  the  last  book  of  travels — which  had 
had  an  enormous  success — contained  one  of  the  most 
malicious  attacks  on  foreign  missions  that  Darrell  re- 
membered. And  if  the  missionaries  had  a  supporter  in 
England,  it  was  Lady  Grosville.  Had  she  designs — 
material  designs — on  behalf  of  Miss  Amy  or  Miss  Caro- 
line? Darrell  smiled  at  the  notion.  Cliffe  must  cer- 
tainly marry  money,  and  was  not  to  be  captured  by  any 
Miss  Amys — or  Lady  Kittys  either,  for  the  matter  of 
that. 

But?— Darrell  glanced  at  the  lady  beside  him,  and 
his  busy  thoughts  took  a  new  turn.  He  had  seen  the 
greeting  between  Miss  Lyster  and  Cliffe.  It  was  cold; 
but  all  the  same  the  world  knew  that  they  had  once  been 
friends.    Was  it  some  five  years  before  that  Miss  Lyster, 

I02 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ash© 

then  in  the  height  of  a  brilhant  season  under  the  wing  of 
Lady  Tranmore,  had  been  much  seen  in  public  with 
Geoffrey  Chffe?  Then  he  had  departed  eastward,  to 
explore  the  upper  waters  of  the  Mekong,  and  the  gossip 
excited  had  died  away.  Of  late  her  name  had  been 
rather  coupled  with  that  of  William  Ashe. 

Well,  so  far  as  the  world  was  concerned,  she  might 
mate  with  either — with  the  mad  notoriety  of  Cliffe  or  the 
young  distinction  of  Ashe.  Darrell's  bitter  heart  con- 
tracted as  he  reflected  that  only  for  him  and  the  likes  of 
him,  men  of  the  people,  with  average  ability,  and  a 
scarcely  average  income,  were  maidens  of  Mary  Lyster's 
dower  and  pedigree  out  of  reach.  Meanwhile  he  re- 
venged himself  by  being  her  very  good  friend,  and  allow- 
ing himself  at  times  much  caustic  plainness  of  speech  in 
his  talks  with  her. 

"What  are  you  three  gossiping  about?"  said  Ashe, 
strolling  in  presently  from  the  other  room  to  join  them. 

"As  usual,"  said  Darrell.  "I  am  listening  to  per- 
fection. Miss  Lyster  and  Harman  are  discussing  pict- 
ures." 

Ashe  stifled  a  little  yawn.  He  threw  himself  down  by 
Mary,  vowing  that  there  was  no  more  pleasure  to  be  got 
out  of  pictures  now  that  people  would  try  to  know  so 
much  about  them.  Mary  meanwhile  raised  herself  in- 
voluntarily to  look  into  the  farther  room,  where  the  noise 
made  by  Cliffe  and  Lady  Kitty  had  increased. 

"They  are  going  to  sing,"  said  Ashe,  lazily — "and  it 
won't  be  hymns." 

In  fact,  Lady  Kitty  had  opened  the  piano,  and  had 
begun  the  first  bars  of  something  French  and  operatic. 

103 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

At  the  first  sound  of  Kitty's  music,  however,  Lady 
Grosville  drew  herself  up;  she  closed  the  volume  of 
Evangelical  sermons  for  which  she  had  exchanged  the 
Times;  she  deposited  her  spectacles  sharply  on  the  table 
beside  her. 

"Amy! — Caroline!" 

Those  young  ladies  rose.  So  did  Lady  Grosville. 
Kitty  meanwhile  sat  with  suspended  fingers  and  laugh- 
ing eyes,  waiting  on  her  aunt's  movements. 

"  Kitty,  pray  don't  let  me  interfere  with  your  playing," 
said  Lady  Grosville,  with  severe  politeness — "but  per- 
haps you  would  kindly  put  it  off  for  half  an  hour.  I 
am  now  going  to  read  to  the  servants — " 

"Gracious!"  said  Kitty,  springing  up.  "I  was  going 
to  play  Mr.  Cliffe  some  Offenbach." 

"Ah,  but  the  piano  can  be  heard  in  the  library,  and 
your  cousin  Amy  plays  the  harmonium — " 

"Mon  Dieti!"  said  Kitty.  "We  will  be  as  quiet  as 
mice.  Or" — she  made  a  quick  step  in  pursuit  of  her 
aunt — "shall  I  come  and  sing.  Aunt  Lina?" 

Ashe,  in  his  shelter  behind  Mary  Lyster,  fell  into  a 
silent  convulsion  of  laughter. 

"No,  thank  you!"  said  Lady  Grosville,  hastily.  And 
she  rustled  away  followed  by  her  daughters. 

Kitty  came  flying  into  the  inner  room  followed  by 
Qiffe. 

"What  have  I  done?"  she  said,  breathlessly,  address- 
ing Harman,  who  rose  to  greet  her.  "Mayn't  one  play 
the  piano  here  on  Sundays?" 

"That  depends,"  said  Harman,  "on  what  you  play." 

"Who  made  your  English  Sunday?"  said  Kitty,  im- 
petuously.    "Je  vous  demande— who?" 

104 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

She  threw  her  challenge  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven — • 
standing  tiptoe,  her  hands  poised  on  the  back  of  a  chair, 
the  smallest  and  most  delicate  of  furies. 

"A  breath  unmakes  it,  as  a  breath  has  made,"  said 
Cliffe.  "Come  and  play  billiards,  Lady  Kitty.  You 
said  just  now  you  played." 

"Billiards!"  said  Harman,  throwing  up  his  hands. 
"On  Sunday — here?" 

"Can  they  hear  the  balls?"  said  Kitty,  eagerly,  with 
a  gesture  towards  the  library. 

Mary  Lyster,  who  had  been  perfunctorily  looking  at  a 
book,  laid  it  down. 

"It  would  certainly  greatly  distress  Lady  Grosville," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  studiously  soft,  but  on  that  account 
perhaps  all  the  more  significant. 

Kitty  glanced  at  Mary,  and  Ashe  saw  the  sudden 
red  in  her  cheek.  She  turned  provokingly  to  Cliffe. 
"There's  quite  half  an  hour,  isn't  there,  before  one  need 
dress — " 

"More,"  said  Cliffe.     "Come  along." 

And  he  made  for  the  door,  which  he  held  open  for  her. 
It  was  now  Mary  Lyster's  turn  to  flush — -the  rebuff  had 
been  so  naked  and  unadorned.  Ashe  rose  as  Kitty 
passed  him. 

"Why  don't  you  come,  too?"  she  said,  pausing. 
There  was  a  flash  from  eyes  deep  and  dark  beneath  a 
pair  of  wilful  brows.  "Aunt  Lina  would  never  be  cross 
with  you  ! ' ' 

"Thank  you!  I  should  be  delighted  to  play  buffer, 
but  unfortunately  I  have  some  work  I  must  do  before 
dinner." 

"Must  you?"     She  looked  at  him  uncertainly,  then 

105 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

at  ClifEe.  In  the  dusk  of  the  large,  heavily  furnished 
room,  the  pale  yet  brilliant  gold  of  her  hair,  her  white 
dress,  her  slim  energy  and  elegance  drew  all  their  eyes — 
even  Mary  Lyster's. 

"I  must,"  Ashe  repeated,  smiling.  "I  am  glad  your 
headache  is  so  much  better." 

"  It  is  not  in  the  least  better!" 

"Then  you  disguise  it  like  a  heroine." 

He  stood  beside  her,  looking  down  upon  her,  his 
height  and  strength  measured  against  her  smallness. 
Apparently  his  amused  detachment,  the  slight  dryness 
of  his  tone  annoyed  her.  She  made  a  tart  reply  and 
vanished  through  the  door  that  Cliffe  held  open  for  her. 

Ashe  retired  to  his  own  room,  dealt  with  some  For- 
eign Ofhce  work,  and  then  allowed  himself  a  medita- 
tive smoke.  The  click  of  the  billiard-balls  had  ceased 
abruptly  about  ten  minutes  after  he  had  begun  upon  his 
papers ;  there  had  been  voices  in  the  hall.  Lord  Grosville's 
he  thought  among  them;  and  now  all  was  silence. 

He  thought  of  the  events  of  the  afternoon  with 
mingled  amusement  and  annoyance.  Cliffe  was  an  un- 
scrupulous fellow,  and  the  child's  head  might  be  turned. 
She  should  be  protected  from  him  in  future — he  vowed 
she  should.  Lady  Tranmore  should  take  it  in  hand. 
She  had  been  a  match  for  Cliffe  in  various  other  directions 
before  this. 

What  brought  the  man,  with  his  notorious  character 
and  antecedents,  to  Grosville  Park  —  one  of  the  dwin- 
dling number  of  country-houses  in  England  where  the  old 
Puritan  restrictions  still  held  ?  It  was  said  he  was  on 
the  look-out  for  a  post — Ashe,  indeed,  happened  to  know 

io6 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

it  officially;  and  Lord  Grosville  had  a  good  deal  of 
influence.  Moreover,  failing  an  appointment,  he  was 
understood  to  be  aiming  at  Parliament  and  office;  and 
there  were  two  safe  county-seats  within  the  Grosville 
sphere. 

"Yet  even  when  he  wants  a  thing  he  can't  behave 
himself  in  order  to  get  it,"  thought  Ashe.  "Anybody 
else  would  have  turned  Sabbatarian  for  once,  and  re- 
frained from  flirting  with  the  Grosvilles'  niece.  But  that's 
Cliffe  all  over — and  perhaps  the  best  thing  about  him." 

He  might  have  added  that  as  Cliffe  was  supposed  to 
desire  an  appointment  under  either  the  Foreign  Office  or 
the  Colonial  Office,  it  might  have  been  thought  to  his 
interest  to  show  himself  more  urbane  than  he  had  in  fact 
shown  himself  that  afternoon  to  the  new  Under-Secretary 
for  Foreign  Affairs.  But  Ashe  rarely  or  never  indulged 
himself  in  reflections  of  that  kind.  Besides,  he  and  Cliffe 
knew  each  other  too  well  for  posing.  There  was  a  time 
when  they  had  been  on  very  friendly  terms,  and  when 
Cliffe  had  been  constantly  in  his  mother's  drawing-room. 
Lady  Tranmore  had  a  weakness  for  "influencing"  young 
men  of  family  and  ability;  and  Cliffe,  in  fact,  owed  her  a 
good  deal.  Then  she  had  seen  cause  to  think  ill  of  him ; 
and,  moreover,  his  travels  had  taken  him  to  the  other 
side  of  the  world.  Ashe  was  now  well  aware  that  Cliffe 
reckoned  on  him  as  a  hostile  influence  and  would  not 
try  either  to  deceive  or  to  propitiate  him. 

He  thought  Cliffe  had  been  disagreeably  surprised  to 
see  him  that  afternoon.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sudden 
sense  of  antagonism  acting  on  the  man's  excitable  nature 
that  had  made  him  fling  himself  into  the  wild  nonsense 
he  had  talked  with  Lady  Kitty. 
8  107 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

And  thenceforward  Ashe's  thoughts  were  possessed  by 
Kitty  only — Kitty  in  her  two  aspects,  of  the  morning  and 
the  afternoon.  He  dressed  in  a  reverie,  and  went  down- 
stairs still  dreaming. 

At  dinner  he  found  himself  responsible  for  Mary 
Lyster.  Kitty  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  widely 
separated  both  from  himself  and  Cliffe.  She  was  in  a 
little  Empire  dress  of  blue  and  silver,  as  extravagantly 
simple  as  her  gown  of  the  afternoon  had  been  extrava- 
gantly elaborate. 

Ashe  observed  the  furtive  study  that  the  Grosville 
girls  could  not  help  bestowing  upon  her  —  upon  her 
shoulder-straps  and  long,  bare  arms,  upon  her  high  waist 
and  the  blue  and  silver  bands  in  her  hair.  Kitty  herself 
sat  in  a  pensive  or  proud  silence.  The  Dean  was  beside 
her,  but  she  scarcely  spoke  to  him,  and  as  to  the  young 
man  from  the  neighborhood  who  had  taken  her  in,  he 
was  to  her  as  though  he  were  not. 

"Has  there  been  a  row?"  Ashe  inquired,  in  a  low 
voice,  of  his  companion. 

Mary  looked  at  him  quietly. 

"Lord  Grosville  asked  them  not  to  play — because  of 
the  servants." 

"Good!"  said  Ashe.  "The  servants  were,  of  course, 
playing  cards  in  the  house-keeper's  room." 

"  Not  at  all.  They  were  singing  hymns  with  Lady 
Grosville." 

Ashe  looked  incredulous. 

"Only  the  slaveys  and  scullery  maids  that  couldn't 
help  themselves.  Never  mind.  Was  Lady  Kitty  ame- 
nable?" 

io8 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"She  seems  to  have  made  Lord  Grosville  very  angry. 
Lady  Grosville  and  I  smoothed  him  down." 

"Did  you?"  said  Ashe.     "That  was  nice  of  you." 

Mary  colored  a  little,  and  did  not  reply.  Presently 
Ashe  resumed. 

"Aren't  you  as  sorry  for  her  as  I  am?" 

"For  Lady  Kitty?  I  should  think  she  managed  to 
amuse  herself  pretty  well," 

"She  seems  to  me  the  most  deplorable  tragic  little 
person,"  said  Ashe,  slowly. 

Miss  Lyster  laughed. 

"I  really  don't  see  it,"  she  said. 

"Oh  yes,  you  do,"  he  persisted — "if  you  think  a 
moment.     Be  kind  to  her — won't  you?" 

She  drew  herself  up  with  a  cold  dignity. 

"  I  confess  that  she  has  never  attracted  me  in  the 
least." 

Ashe  returned  to  his  dinner,  dimly  conscious  that  he 
had  spoken  like  a  fool. 

When  the  ladies  had  withdrawn,  the  conversation  fell 
on  some  important  news  from  the  Far  East  contained  in 
the  Sunday  papers  that  Geoffrey  Cliffe  had  brought 
down,  and  presumed  to  form  part  of  the  despatches 
which  the  two  ministers  staying  in  the  house  had  re- 
ceived that  afternoon  by  Foreign  Office  messenger.  The 
government  of  Teheran  was  in  one  of  its  periodical  fits 
of  ill  -  temper  with  England ;  had  been  meddling  with 
Afghanistan,  flirting  badly  with  Russia,  and  bringing 
ridiculous  charges  against  the  British  minister.  An  ex- 
pedition to  Bushire  was  talked  of,  and  the  Radical  press 
was  on  the  war-path.  The  cabinet  minister  said  little. 
A  Lord  Privy  Seal,  reverentially  credited  with  advising 

109 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

royalty  in  its  private  affairs,  need  have  no  views  on  the 
Persian  Gulf.  But  Ashe  was  appealed  to  and  talked 
well.  The  minister  at  Teheran  was  an  old  friend  of  his, 
and  he  described  the  personal  attacks  made  on  him  for 
political  reasons  by  the  Shah  and  his  ministers  with  a 
humor  which  kept  the  table  entertained. 

Suddenly  Cliff e  interposed.  He  had  been  listening 
with  restlessness,  though  Ashe,  with  pointed  courtesy, 
had  once  or  twice  included  him  in  the  conversation.  And 
presently,  at  a  somewhat  dramatic  moment,  he  met  a 
statement  of  Ashe's  with  a  direct  and  violent  contradic- 
tion. Ashe  flushed,  and  a  duel  began  between  the  two 
men  of  which  the  company  were  soon  silent  spectators. 
Ashe  had  the  resources  of  official  knowledge;  Cliff e  had 
been  recently  on  the  spot,  and  pushed  home  the  advan- 
tage of  the  eye-witness  with  a  covert  insolence  which 
Ashe  bore  with  surprising  carelessness  and  good-temper. 
In  the  end  Cliffe  said  some  outrageous  things,  at  which 
Ashe  laughed ;  and  Lord  Grosville  abruptly  dissolved  the 
party. 

Ashe  went  smiling  out  of  the  dining-room,  caressing  a 
fine  white  spaniel,  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  In 
crossing  the  hall  Harman  found  himself  alone  with  the 
Dean,  who  looked  serious  and  preoccupied. 

"That  was  a  curious  spectacle,"  said  Harman.  "Ashe's 
equanimity  was  amazing." 

"I  had  rather  have  seen  him  angrier,"  said  the  Dean, 
slowly. 

"He  was  always  a  very  tolerant,  easy-going  fellow." 

The  Dean  shook  his  head. 

"A  touch  of  sceva  indignatio  now  and  then  would 
complete  him." 

no 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Has  he  got  it  in  him?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  the  little  Dean,  with  a  flash  of 
expression  that  dignified  all  his  frail  person.  "But 
without  it  he  will  hardly  make  a  great  man." 

Meanwhile  Geoffrey  Cliffe,  his  strange,  twisted  face  still 
vindictively  aglow,  made  his  way  to  Kitty  Bristol's  cor- 
ner in  the  drawing-room.  Mary  Lyster  was  conscious  of 
it,  conscious  also  of  a  certain  look  that  Kitty  bestowed 
upon  the  entrance  of  Ashe,  while  Cliffe  was  opening  a 
battery  of  mingled  chaff  and  compliments  that  did  not 
at  first  have  much  effect  upon  her.  But  William  Ashe 
threw  himself  into  conversation  with  Lady  Edith  Man- 
ley,  and  was  presently,  to  all  appearance,  happily  plunged 
in  gossip,  his  tall  person  wholly  at  ease  in  a  deep  arm- 
chair, while  Lady  Edith  bent  over  him  with  smiles. 
Meanwhile  there  was  a  certain  desertion  of  Kitty  on  the 
part  of  the  ladies.  Lady  Grosville  hardly  spoke  to  her, 
and  the  girls  markedly  avoided  her.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment when  Kitty,  looking  round  her,  suddenly  shook 
her  small  shoulders,  and  like  a  colt  escaping  from  har- 
ness gave  herself  to  riot.  She  and  Cliffe  amused  them- 
selves so  well  and  so  noisily  that  the  whole  drawing-room 
was  presently  uneasily  aware  of  them.  Lady  Grosville 
shot  glances  of  wrath,  rose  suddenly  at  one  moment  and 
sat  down  again;  her  girls  talked  more  disjointedly  than 
ever  to  the  gentlemen  who  were  civilly  attending  them; 
while,  on  the  other  hand.  Miss  Lyster's  flow  of  con- 
versation with  Louis  Harman  was  more  softly  copious 
than  usual.  At  last  the  Dean's  wife  looked  at  the  Dean, 
a  signal  of  kind  distress,  and  the  Dean  advanced. 

"Lady  Kitty,"  he  said,  taking  a  seat  beside  the  pair, 
"have  you  forgotten  you  promised  me  some  French?" 

in 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Kitty  turned  on  him  a  hot  and  mutinous  face. 

"Did  I?  What  shall  I  say?  Some  Alfred  de  Mus- 
set?" 

"No,"  said  the  Dean,  "I  think  not." 

"Some — some" — she  cudgelled  her  memory — "som& 
Th^ophile  Gautier?" 

"No,  certainly  not!"  said  the  Dean,  hastily. 

"Well,  as  I  don't  know  a  word  of  him — "  laughed 
Kitty. 

"That  was  mischievous,"  said  the  Dean,  raising  a 
^nger.     "Let  me  suggest  Lamartine." 

Kitty  shook  her  head  obstinately.  "I  never  learned 
one  line." 

"Then  some  of  the  old  fellows,"  said  the  Dean,  per- 
suasively. "I  long  to  hear  you  in  Corneille  or  Racine. 
That  we  should  all  enjoy." 

And  suddenly  his  wrinkled  hand  fell  kindly  on  the 
girl's  small,  chilly  fingers  and  patted  them.  Their  eyes 
met,  Kitty's  wild  and  challenging,  the  Dean's  full  of  that 
ethereal  benevolence  which  blended  so  agreeably  with 
his  character  as  courtier  and  man  of  the  world.  There 
was  a  bright  sweetness  in  them  which  seemed  to  say: 
"Poor  child!  I  understand.  But  be  a  little  good — as 
well  as  clever — and  all  will  be  well." 

Suddenly  Kitty's  look  wavered  and  fell.  All  the 
harshness  dissolved  from  her  thin  young  beauty.  She 
turned  from  Cliffe,  and  the  Dean  saw  her  quiver  with 
submission. 

"I  think  I  could  say  some  ' Polyeucte,' "  she  said, 
gently. 

The  Dean  clapped  his  hands  and  rose. 

"Lady  Grosville,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice — "Ladies 

JI2 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

and  gentlemen,  Lady  Kitty  has  promised  to  say  us  some 
more  French  poetry.  You  remember  how  admirably  she 
recited  last  night.  But  this  is  Sunday,  and  she  will  give 
us  something  in  a  different  vein." 

Lady  Grosville,  who  had  risen  impatiently,  sat  down 
again.  There  was  a  general  movement;  chairs  were 
turned  or  drawn  forward  till  a  circle  formed.  Mean- 
while the  Dean  consulted  with  Kitty  and  resumed: 

"Lady  Kitty  will  recite  a  scene  from  Corneille's 
beautiful  tragedy  of  '  Polyeucte '— the  scene  in  which 
Pauline,  after  witnessing  the  martyrdom  of  her  husband, 
who  has  been  beheaded  for  refusing  to  sacrifice  to  the 
gods,  returns  from  the  place  of  execution  so  melted  by 
the  love  and  sacrifice  she  has  beheld  that  she  opens  her 
heart  then  and  there  to  the  same  august  faith  and  pleads 
for  the  same  death." 

The  Dean  seated  himself,  and  Kitty  stepped  into  the 
centre  of  the  circle.  She  thought  a  moment,  her  lips 
moving,  as  though  she  recalled  the  lines.  Then  she 
looked  down  at  her  bare  arms,  and  dress,  frowned,  and 
suddenly  approached  Lady  Edith  Manley. 

"May  I  have  that?"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  lace  cloak 
that  lay  on  Lady  Edith's  knee.     "I  am  rather  cold." 

Lady  Edith  handed  it  to  her,  and  she  threw  it  round 
her. 

"Actress!"  said  Cliffe,  under  his  breath,  with  a  grin  of 
amusement. 

At  any  rate,  her  impulse  served  her  well.  Her  form 
and  dress  disappeared  under  a  cloud  of  white.  She  be- 
came in  a  flash,  so  to  speak,  evangelized — a  most  inno- 
cent and  spiritual  apparition.  Her  beautiful  head,  her 
kindled  and  transfigured  face,  her  little  hand  on  the 

113 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

white  folds,  these  alone  remained  to  mingle  their  im- 
pression with  the  austere  and  moving  tragedy  which  her 
lips  recited.  Her  audience  looked  on  at  first  with  the 
embarrassed  or  hostile  air  which  is  the  Englishman's 
natural  protection  against  the  great  things  of  art;  then 
for  those  who  understood  French  the  high  passion  and 
the  noble  verse  began  to  tell ;  while  those  who  could  not 
follow  were  gradually  enthralled  by  the  gestures  and 
tones  with  which  the  slight,  vibrating  creature,  whom 
but  ten  minutes  before  most  of  them  had  regarded  as  a 
mere  noisy  flirt,  suggested  and  conveyed  the  finest  and 
most  compelling  shades  of  love,  faith,  and  sacrifice. 

When  she  ceased,  there  was  a  moment's  profound 
silence.  Then  Lady  Edith,  drawing  a  long  breath,  ex- 
pressed the  welcome  commonplace  which  restored  the 
atmosphere  of  daily  life. 

"How  could  you  remember  it  all?" 
Kitty  sat  down,  her  lip  trembling  scornfully. 
"I  had  to  say  it  every  week  at  the  convent." 
"I  understand,"  said   Cliffe  in   Darrell's   ear — "that 
last  night  she  was  Doila  Sol.     An  accommodating  young 
woman." 

Meanwhile  Kitty  looked  up  to  find  Ashe  beside  her. 
He  said,  "Magnificent!" — but  it  did  not  matter  to  her 
what  he  said.  His  face  told  her  that  she  had  moved  him, 
and  that  he  was  incapable  of  any  foolish  chatter  about  it. 
A  smile  of  extraordinary  sweetness  sprang  into  her  eyes ; 
and  when  Lady  Grosville  came  up  to  thank  her,  the  girl 
impetuously  rose,  and,  in  the  foreign  way,  kissed  her 
hand,  courtesying.  Lord  Grosville  said,  heartily,  "  Upon 
my  word,  Kitty,  you  ought  to  go  on  the  stage!"  and  she 
smiled  upon  him,  too,  in  a  flutter  of  feeling,  forgetting 

114 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

his  scolding  and  her  own  impertinence,  before  dinner. 
The  revulsion,  indeed,  throughout  the  company — with 
two  exceptions  —  was  complete.  For  the  rest  of  the 
evening  Kitty  basked  in  sunshine  and  flattery.  She  met 
it  with  a  joyous  gentleness,  and  the  little  figure,  still 
bedraped  in  white,  became  the  centre  of  the  room's 
kindness. 

The  Dean  was  triumphant. 

"My  dear  Miss  Lyster,"  he  said,  presently,  finding 
himself  near  that  lady,  "did  you  ever  hear  anything 
better  done?     A  most  remarkable  talent!" 

Mary  smiled. 

"I  am  wondering,"  she  said,  "what  they  teach  you 
in  French  convents — and  why!  It  is  all  so  singular, 
— isn't  it?" 

Late  that  night  Ashe  entered  his  room — before  his 
usual  time,  however.  He  had  tired  even  of  Lord  Gros- 
ville's  chat,  and  had  left  the  smoking-room  still  talking. 
Indeed,  he  wished  to  be  alone,  and  there  was  that  in  his 
veins  which  told  him  that  a  new  motive  had  taken  pos- 
session of  his  life. 

He  sat  beside  the  open  window  reviewing  the  scenes 
and  feelings  of  the  day — his  interview  with  Kitty  in  the 
morning — the  teasing  coquette  of  the  afternoon— the 
inspired  poetic  child  of  the  evening.  Rapidly,  but  none 
the  less  strongly  and  steadfastly,  he  made  up  his  mind. 
He  would  ask  Kitty  Bristol  to  marry  him,  and  he  would 
ask  her  immediately. 

Why  ?  He  scarcely  knew  her.  His  mother,  his  fam- 
ily would  think  it  madness.  No  doubt  it  was  madness. 
Yet,   as  far  as  he  could  explain  his  impulse  himself, 

"5 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

it  depended  on  certain  fundamental  facts  in  his  own 
nature — it  was  in  keeping  with  his  deepest  character. 
He  had  an  inbred  love  of  the  difficult,  the  unconventional 
in  life,  of  all  that  piqued  and  stimulated  his  own  super- 
abundant consciousness  of  resource  and  power.  And  he 
had  a  tenderness  of  feeling,  a  gift  of  chivalrous  pity,  only 
known  to  the  few,  which  was  in  truth  always  hungrily 
on  the  watch,  like  some  starved  faculty  that  cannot  find 
its  outlet.  The  thought  of  this  beautiful  child,  in  the 
hands  of  such  a  mother  as  Madame  d'Estrees,  and 
rushing  upon  risks  illustrated  by  the  half  -  mocking 
attentions  of  Geoffrey  Cliffe,  did  in  truth  wring  his  heart. 
With  a  strange  imaginative  clearness  he  foresaw  her 
future,  he  beheld  her  the  prey  at  once  of  some  bad 
fellow  and  of  her  own  temperament.  She  would  come  to 
grief;  he  saw  the  prescience  of  it  in  her  already;  and 
what  a  waste  would  be  there! 

No! — he  would  step  in — capture  her  before  these  ways 
and  whims,  now  merely  bizarre  or  foolish,  stiffened  into 
what  might  in  truth  destroy  her.  His  pulse  quickened  as 
he  thought  of  the  development  of  this  beauty,  the  ripen- 
ing of  this  intelligence.  Never  yet  had  he  seen  a  girl 
whom  he  much  wished  to  marry.  He  was  easily  repelled 
by  stupidity,  still  more  by  mere  amiability.  Some  touch 
of  acid,  of  roughness  in  the  fruit — that  drew  him,  in 
politics,  thought,  love.  And  if  she  married  him  he 
vowed  to  himself,  proudly,  that  she  would  find  him  no 
tyrant.  Many  a  man  might  marry  her  who  would  then 
fight  her  and  try  to  break  her.  All  that  was  most  fas- 
tidious and  characteristic  in  Ashe  revolted  from  such  a 
notion.  With  him  she  should  have  freedom — whatever  it 
might   cost.     He   asked   himself   deliberately,   whether 

ii6 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

after  marriage  he  could  see  her  flirting  with  other  men, 
as  she  had  flirted  that  day  with  ChfEe,  and  still  refrain 
from  coercing  her.  And  his  question  was  answered,  or 
rather  put  aside,  first  by  the  confidence  of  nascent  love — 
he  would  love  her  so  well  and  so  loyally  that  she  would 
naturally  turn  to  him  for  counsel ;  and  then  by  the  clear 
perception  that  she  was  a  creature  of  mind  rather  than 
sense,  governed  mainly  by  the  caprices  and  curiosities 
of  the  intelligence,  combined  with  a  rather  cold,  indiffer- 
ent temperament.  _  One  moment  throwing  herself  wildly 
into  a  dangerous  or  exciting  intimacy,  the  next,  parting 
with  a  laugh,  and  without  a  regret — it  was  thus  he  saw 
her  in  the  future,  even  as  a  wife.  "She  may  scandalize 
half  the  world,"  he  said  to  himself,  stubbornly — "  I  shall 
understand  her!" 

But  his  mother  ? — his  friends  ? — his  colleagues  ?  He 
knew  well  his  mother's  ambitions  for  him,  and  the  place 
that  he  held  in  her  heart.  Could  he  without  cruelty 
impose  upon  her  such  a  daughter  as  Kitty  Bristol? 
Well! — his  mother  had  a  very  large  experience  of  life, 
and  much  natural  independence  of  mind.  He  trusted 
her  to  see  the  promise  in  this  untamed  and  gifted  creat- 
ure; he  counted  on  the  sense  of  power  that  Lady  Tran- 
more  possessed,  and  which  would  but  find  new  scope  in 
the  taming  of  Kitty. 

But  Kitty's  mother?  Kitty  must,  of  course,  be  res- 
cued from  Madame  d'Estr6es — must  find  a  new  and  truer 
mother  in  Lady  Tranmore.  But  money  would  do  it, 
and  money  must  be  lavished. 

Then,  almost  for  the  first  time,  Ashe  felt  a  conscious 
delight  in  wealth  and  birth.  Panache?  He  could  give 
it  her — the  little,  wild,  lovely  thing!     Luxury,  society, 

117 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

adoration — all  should  be  hers.     She  should  be  so  loved 
and  cherished,  she  m\ist  needs  love  in  turn. 

His  dreams  were  delicious ;  and  the  sudden  fear  into 
which  he  fell  at  the  end  lest  after  all  Kitty  should  mock 
and  turn  from  him,  was  only  in  truth  another  pleasure. 
No  delay!  Circumstances  might  develop  at  any  moment 
and  sweep  her  from  him.  Now  or  never  must  he  snatch 
her  from  difificulty  and  disgrace — let  hostile  tongues  wag 
as  they  pleased — and  make  her  his. 

His  political  future  ?  He  knew  well  the  influence  which, 
in  these  days  of  universal  publicity,  a  man's  private  af- 
fairs may  have  on  his  public  career.  And  in  truth  his 
heart  was  in  that  career,  and  the  thought  of  endanger- 
ing it  hurt  him.  Certainly  it  would  recommend  him  to 
nobody  that  he  should  marry  Madame  d'Estrees'  daugh- 
ter. On  the  other  hand,  what  favor  did  he  want  of 
anybody  ?  save  what  work  and  "knowing  more  than  the 
other  fellows"  might  compel?  The  cynic  in  him  was 
well  aware  that  he  had  already  what  other  men  fought 
for — family,  money,  and  position.  Society  must  accept 
his  wife;  and  Kitty,  once  mellowed  by  happiness  and 
praise,  might  live,  laugh,  and  rattle  as  she  pleased. 

As  to  strangeness  and  caprice,  the  modern  world  de- 
lights in  them;  "the  violent  take  it  by  force."  There  is, 
indeed,  a  dividing-line;  but  it  was  a  love-marriage  that 
should  keep  Kitty  on  the  safe  side  of  it. 

He  stood  lost  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  resolve,  when 
suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  movement  outside,  and  a 
flash  of  white  among  the  yew  hedges  bordering  the  formal 
garden  on  which  his  windows  looked.  The  night  outside 
was  still  and  veiled,  but  of  the  flash  of  white  he  was 
certain — and  of  a  step  on  the  gravel. 

ii8 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Something  fell  beside  him,  thrown  from  outside.  He 
picked  it  up,  and  found  a  flower  weighted  by  a  stone, 
tied  into  a  fold  of  ribbon. 

"Madcap!"  he  said  to  himself,  his  heart  beating  to 
suffocation. 

Then  he  stole  out  of  his  room,  and  down  a  small, 
winding  staircase  which  led  directly  to  the  garden  and 
a  door  beside  the  orangery.  He  had  to  unbolt  the 
door,  and  as  he  did  so  a  dog  in  one  of  the  basement 
rooms  began  to  bark.  But  there  could  be  no  flinching, 
though  the  whole  thing  was  of  an  imprudence  which 
pricked  his  conscience.  To  slip  along  the  shadowed 
side  of  the  orangery,  to  cross  the  space  of  clouded  light 
beyond,  and  gain  the  darkness  of  the  ilex  avenue 
beyond  was  soon  done.  Then  he  heard  a  soft  laugh, 
and  a  little  figure  fled  before  him.  He  followed  and 
overtook. 

Kitty  Bristol  turned  upon  him. 

"Didn't  I  throw  straight?"  she  said,  triumphantly. 
"And  they  say  girls  can't  throw." 

"But  why  did  you  throw  at  all?"  he  said,  capturing 
her  hand. 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  And  I  was  restless 
and  couldn't  sleep.  Why  did  you  never  come  and  talk 
to  me  this  afternoon?  And  why" — she  beat  her  foot 
angrily — "  did  you  let  me  go  and  play  billiards  alone  with 
Mr.  Ciiffe?" 

"Let  you!"  cried  Ashe.  "As  if  anybody  could  have 
prevented  you!" 

"One  sees,  of  course,  that  you  detest  Mr.  Ciiffe,"  said 
the  whiteness  beside  him. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  about  Geoffrey  Ciiffe.  I 
H9 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

won't  talk  about  him!  Though,  of  course,  you  must 
know — " 

"That  I  flirted  with  him  abominably  all  the  after- 
noon? C'est  vrai — c'est  ab-sol-ument  vrai!  And  I  shall 
always  want  to  flirt  with  him,  wherever  I  am — and  what- 
ever I  may  be  doing." 

"Do  as  you  please,"  said  Ashe,  dryly,  "but  I  think 
you  will  get  tired." 

"No,  no  —  he  excites  me!  He  is  bad,  false,  selfish, 
but  he  excites  me.  He  talks  to  very  few  women — 
one  can  see  that.  And  all  the  women  want  to 
talk  to  him.  He  used  to  admire  Miss  Lyster,  and 
now  he  dislikes  her.  But  she  doesn't  dislike  him. 
No  I  she  would  marry  him  to  -  morrow  if  he  asked 
her." 

"You  are  very  positive,"  said  Ashe.  "Allow  me  to 
say  that  I  entirely  disagree  with  you." 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  her,"  said  the  teas- 
ing voice. 

"She  is  my  cousin,  mademoiselle." 

"What  does  that  matter?  I  know  much  more  than 
you  do,  though  I  have  only  seen  her  two  days.  I  know 
that — well,  I  am  afraid  of  her!" 

"Afraid  of  her?  Did  you  come  out — may  I  ask — 
determined  to  talk  nonsense?" 

"I  came  out  —  never  mind!  I  am  afraid  of  her. 
She  hates  me.  I  think" — he  felt  a  shiver  in  the  air — 
"she  will  do  me  harm  if  she  can." 

"No  one  shall  do  you  harm,"  said  Ashe,  his  tone 
changing,  "if  you  will  only  trust  yourself — " 

She  laughed  merrily. 

"To  you?     Oh!  you'd  soon  throw  it  up." 

120 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

"Try  me!"  he  said,  approaching  her.  "Lady  Kitty,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Suddenly  she  shrank  away  from  him.  He  could  not 
see  her  face,  and  had  nothing  to  guide  him. 

"  I  haven't  yet  known  you  three  weeks,"  he  said,  over- 
mastered by  something  passionate  and  profound.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  will  say — whether  you  can  put  up 
with  me  But  I  know  my  own  mind — I  shall  not 
change.     I — I  love  you.     I  ask  you  to  marry  me." 

A  silence.  The  night  seemed  to  have  grown  darker. 
Then  a  small  hand  seized  his,  and  two  soft  lips  pressed 
themselves  upon  it.  He  tried  to  capture  her,  but  she 
evaded  him. 

"You — you  really  and  actually — want  to  marry  me?" 

"I  do,  Kitty,  with  all  my  heart." 

"You  remember  about  my  mother — about  Alice?" 

"I  remember  everything.  We  would  face  it  to- 
gether." 

"And — you  know  what  I  told  you  about  my  bad 
temper?" 

"  Some  nonsense,  wasn't  it  ?  But  I  should  be  bored  by 
the  domestic  dove.  I  want  the  hawk,  Kitty,  with  its 
quick  wings  and  its  daring  bright  eyes." 

She  broke  from  him  with  a  cry. 

"You  must  listen.  I  have — a  wicked,  odious,  un- 
governable temper.     I  should  make  you  miserable." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Ashe.  "I  should  take  it  very 
calmly.     I  am  made  that  way." 

"And  then — I  don't  know  how  to  put  it — but  I  have 
fancies — overpowering  fancies — and  I  must  follow  them, 
I  have  one  now  for  Geoffrey  Cliff e." 

Ashe  laughed. 

121 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Oh,  that  won't  last." 

"  Then  some  other  will  come  after  it.  And  I  can't  help 
it.  It  is  my  head" — she  tapped  her  forehead  lightly — 
"that  seems  on  fire." 

Ashe  at  last  slipped  his  arm  round  her. 

"But  it  is  your  heart — you  will  give  me." 

She  pushed  him  away  from  her  and  held  him  at  arm's- 
length. 

"You  are  very  rich,  aren't  you  ?"  she  said,  in  a  muffled 
voice. 

"I  am  well  off.  I  can  give  you  all  the  pretty  things 
you  want." 

"And  some  day  you  will  be  Lord  Tranmore?" 

"Yes,  when  my  poor  father  dies,"  he  said,  sighing. 
He  felt  her  fingers  caress  his  hand  again.  It  was  a  spirit 
touch,  light  and  tender. 

"And  every  one  says  you  are  so  clever — you  have  such 
prospects.     Perhaps  you  will  be  Prime  Minister." 

"Well,  there's  no  saying,"  he  threw  out,  laughing — 
"if  you'll  come  and  help." 

He  heard  a  sob. 

"Help!  I  should  be  the  ruin  of  you.  I  should  spoil 
everything.  You  don't  know  the  mischief  I  can  do. 
And  I  can't  help  it,  it's  in  my  blood." 

"You  would  like  the  game  of  politics  too  much  to  spoil 
it,  Kitty."  His  voice  broke  and  lingered  on  the  name. 
"You  would  want  to  be  a  great  lady  and  lead  the 
party." 

"Should  I?  Could  you  ever  teach  me  how  to  be- 
have?" 

"You  would  learn  by  nature.  Do  you  know,  Kitty, 
how  clever  you  are?" 

122 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Yes,"  she  sighed.  "I  am  clever.  But  there  is  al- 
ways something  that  hinders — that  brings  failure." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?"  he  said,  laughing.  "  Eighteen — 
or  eighty?" 

Suddenly  he  put  out  his  arms,  enfolding  her.  And 
she,  still  sobbing,  raised  her  hands,  clasped  them  round 
his  neck,  and  clung  to  him  like  a  child. 

"Oh!  I  knew — I  knew — when  I  first  saw  your  face. 
I  had  been  so  miserable  all  day — and  then  you  looked  at 
me — and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  all.  Oh,  I  adore  you — I 
adore  you!"  Their  faces  met.  Ashe  tasted  a  moment 
of  rapture;  and  knew  himself  free  at  last  of  the  great 
company  of  poets  and  of  lovers. 

They  slipped  back  to  the  house,  and  Ashe  saw  her 
disappear  by  a  door  on  the  farther  side  of  the  orangery — • 
noiselessly,  without  a  sound.  Except  that  just  at  the 
last  she  drew  him  to  her  and  breathed  a  sacred  whisper 
in  his  ear. 

"Oh!  what — what  will  Lady  Tranmore  say?" 

Then  she  fled.  But  she  left  her  question  behind  her, 
and  when  the  dawn  came  Ashe  found  that  he  had  spent 
half  the  night  in  trying  anew  to  frame  some  sort  of  an 
answer  to  it. 

9 


PART    II 
THREE    YEARS    AFTER 

"The  world  an  ancient  murderer  is." 


VII 


HER  ladyship  will  be  ''n  before  six,  my  lady.  I  was 
to  be  sure  and  ask  you  to  wait,  if  you  came  before, 
and  to  tell  you  that  her  ladyship  had  gone  to  Madame 
Fanchette  about  her  dress  for  the  ball." 

So  said  Lady  Kitty's  maid.  Lady  Tranmore  hesi- 
tated, then  said  she  would  wait,  and  asked  that  Master 
Henry  might  be  brought  down. 

The  maid  went  for  the  child,  and  Lady  Tranmore 
entered  the  drawing-room.  The  Ashes  had  been  settled 
since  their  marriage  in  a  house  in  Hill  Street — a  house 
to  which  Kitty  had  lost  her  heart  at  first  sight.  It  was 
old  and  distinguished,  covered  here  and  there  with 
eighteenth-century  decoration,  once,  no  doubt,  a  little 
florid  and  coarse  beside  the  finer  work  of  the  period,  but 
now  agreeably  blunted  and  mellowed  by  time.  Kitty 
had  had  her  impetuous  and  decided  way  with  the  fur- 
nishing of  it;  and,  though  Lady  Tranmore  professed  to 
admire  it,  the  result  was,  in  truth,  too  French  and  too 
pagan  for  her  taste.  Her  own  room  reflected  the  rising 
worship  of  Morris  and  Burne-Jones,  of  which,  indeed,  she 
had  been  an  adept  from  the  beginning.  Her  walls  were 
covered  by  the  well-known  pomegranate  or  jasmine  or 
sunflower  patterns;  her  hangings  were  of  a  mystic  green- 
ish-blue; her  pictures  were  drawn  either  from  the  Italian 
primitives  or  their  modern  followers.      Celtic  romance, 

127 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Christian  symbolism,  all  that  was  touching,  other-world- 
ly, and  obscure — our  late  English  form,  in  fact,  of  the 
great  Romantic  reaction — it  was  amid  influences  of  this 
kind  that  Lady  Tranmore  lived  and  fed  her  own  imagi- 
nation. The  dim,  suggestive,  and  pathetic;  twihght 
rather  than  dawn,  autumn  rather  than  spring;  yearning 
rather  than  fulfilment;  "the  gleam"  rather  than  noon- 
day: it  was  in  this  half-lit,  richly  colored  sphere  that  she 
and  most  of  her  friends  saw  the  tent  of  Beauty  pitched. 

But  Kitty  would  have  none  of  it.  She  quoted  French 
sceptical  remarks  about  the  legs  and  joints  of  the 
Burne- Jones  knights ;  she  declared  that  so  much  pattern 
made  her  dizzy;  and  that  the  French  were  the  only 
nation  in  the  world  who  understood  a  salon,  whether  as 
upholstery  or  conversation.  Accordingly,  in  days  when 
these  things  were  rare,  the  girl  of  eighteen  made  her 
new  husband  provide  her  with  white-panelled  walls, 
lightly  gilt,  and  with  a  Persian  carpet  of  which  the  mass 
was  of  a  plain,  blackish  gray,  and  only  the  border  was 
allowed  to  flower.  A  few  Louis-Quinze  girandoles  on  the 
walls,  a  Vernis-Martin  screen,  an  old  French  clock,  two  or 
three  inlaid  cabinets,  and  a  collection  of  lightly  built 
chairs  and  settees  in  the  French  mode — this  was  all  she 
would  allow;  and  while  Lady  Tranmore's  room  was 
always  crowded,  Kitty's,  which  was  much  smaller,  had 
always  an  air  of  space.  French  books  were  scattered 
here  and  there;  and  only  one  picture  was  admitted. 
That  was  a  Watteau  sketch  of  a  group  from  "L'Em- 
barquement  pour  Cythere."  Kitty  adored  it;  Lady 
Tranmore  thought  it  absurd  and  disagreeable. 

As  she  entered  the  room  now,  on  this  May  afternoon, 
she  looked  round  it  with  her  usual  distaste.     On  several 

128 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

of  the  chairs  large  illustrated  books  were  lying.  They 
contained  pictures  of  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  cen- 
tury costume — one  of  them  displayed  a  colored  engrav- 
ing of  a  brilliant  Madame  de  Pompadour,  by  Boucher. 

The  maid  who  followed  her  into  the  room  began  to 
remove  the  books. 

"Her  ladyship  has  been  choosing  her  costume,  my 
lady,"  she  explained,  as  she  closed  some  of  the  volumes. 

"Is  it  settled?"  said  Lady  Tranmore. 

The  maid  replied  that  she  believed  so,  and,  bringing  a 
volume  which  had  been  laid  aside  with  a  mark  in  it,  she 
opened  on  a  fantastic  plate  of  Madame  de  Longueville, 
as  Diana,  in  a  gorgeous  hunting-dress. 

Lady  Tranmore  looked  at  it  in  silence ;  she  thought  it 
unseemly,  with  its  bare  ankles  and  sandalled  feet,  and 
likely  to  be  extremely  expensive.  For  this  Diana  of  the 
Fronde  sparkled  with  jewels  from  top  to  toe,  and  Lady 
Tranmore  felt  certain  that  Kitty  had  already  made 
William  promise  her  the  counterpart  of  the  magnifi- 
cent diamond  crescent  that  shone  in  the  coiffure  of  the 
goddess. 

"It  really  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  that  suited  her 
ladyship,"  said  the  maid,  in  a  deprecating  voice. 

"I  dare  say  it  will  look  very  well,"  said  Lady  Tran- 
more.    "And  Fanchette  is  to  make  it?" 

"If  her  ladyship  is  not  too  late,"  said  the  maid,  smil- 
ing. "But  she  has  taken  such  a  long  time  to  make  up 
her  mind — " 

"And  Fanchette,  of  course,  is  driven  to  death.  All  the 
world  seems  to  have  gone  mad  about  this  ball." 

Lady  Tranmore  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  a  slight 
disgust.     She    was    not    going.     Since    her   elder    son's 

129 


The    M*arriage    of    William    Ashe 

death  she  had  had  no  taste  for  spectacles  of  the  kind. 
But  she  knew  very  well  that  fashionable  London  was 
talking  and  thinking  of  nothing  else ;  she  heard  that  the 
print-room  of  the  British  Museum  was  every  day  be- 
sieged by  an  eager  crowd  of  fair  ladies,  claiming  the  ser- 
vices of  the  museum  officials  from  dewy  morn  till  eve; 
that  historic  costumes  and  famous  jewels  were  to  be 
lavished  on  the  affair;  that  those  who  were  not  invited 
had  not  even  the  resource  of  contempt,  so  unquestioned 
and  indubitable  was  the  prospect  of  a  really  magnificent 
spectacle;  and  that  the  dress-makers  of  Paris  and  Lon- 
don, if  they  survived  the  efifort,  would  reap  a  marvellous 
harvest. 

"And  Mr.  Ashe — do  you  know  if  he  is  going,  after 
all?"  she  asked  of  the  maid  as  the  latter  was  retreating. 

"Mr.  Ashe  says  he  will,  if  he  may  wear  just  court- 
dress,"  said  the  maid,  smiling.  "Not  unless.  And  her 
ladyship's  afraid  it  won't  be  allowed." 

"She'll  make  him  go  in  costume,"  thought  Lady 
Tranmore.  "And  he  will  do  it,  or  anything,  to  avoid 
a  scene." 

The  maid  retired,  and  Lady  Tranmore  was  left  alone. 
As  she  sat  waiting,  a  thought  occurred  to  her.  She  rang 
for  the  butler. 

"Where  is  the  Times?"  she  asked,  when  he  appeared. 
The  man  replied  that  it  was  no  doubt  in  Mr.  Ashe's 
room,  and  he  would  bring  it. 

"Kitty  has  probably  not  looked  at  it,"  thought  the 
visitor.  When  the  paper  arrived  she  turned  at  once  to 
the  Parliamentary  report.  It  contained  an  important 
speech  by  Ashe  in  the  House  the  night  before.  Lady 
Tranmore  had  been  disturbed  in  the  reading  of  it  that 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

morning,  and  had  still  a  few  sentences  to  finish.  She 
read  them  with  pride,  then  glanced  again  at  the  leading 
article  on  the  debate,  and  at  the  flattering  references  it 
contained  to  the  knowledge,  courtesy,  and  debating 
power  of  the  Under-Secretary  for  Foreign  Affairs. 

"Mr.  Ashe,"  said  the  Times,  "has  well  earned  the 
promotion  he  is  now  sure  to  receive  before  long.  In 
those  important  rearrangements  of  some  of  the  higher 
offices  which  cannot  be  long  delayed,  Mr.  Ashe  is  clearly 
marked  out  for  a  place  in  the  cabinet.  He  is  young,  but 
he  has  already  done  admirable  service ;  and  there  can  be 
no  question  that  he  has  a  great  future  before  him." 

Lady  Tranmore  put  down  the  paper  and  fell  into  a 
reverie.  A  great  future?  Yes— if  Kitty  permitted — if 
Kitty  could  be  managed.  At  present  it  appeared  to 
William's  mother  that  the  caprices  of  his  wife  were 
endangering  the  whole  development  of  his  career. 
There  were  wheels  within  wheels,  and  the  newspapers 
knew  very  little  about  them. 

Three  years,  was  it,  since  the  marriage?  She  looked 
back  to  her  dismay  when  William  brought  her  the  news, 
though  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  some  sort  she  had  fore- 
seen it  from  the  moment  of  his  first  mention  of  Kitty 
Bristol — with  its  eager  appeal  to  her  kindness,  and  that 
new  and  indefinable  something  in  voice  an-d  manner 
which  put  her  at  once  on  the  alert. 

Ought  she  to  have  opposed  it  more  strongly  ?  She 
had,  indeed,  opposed  it;  and  for  a  whole  wretched  week 
she  who  had  never  yet  gainsaid  him  in  anything  had 
argued  and  pleaded  with  her  son,  attempting  at  the  same 
time  to  bring  in  his  uncles  to  wrestle  with  him,  seeing 
that  his  poor  paralyzed  father  was  of  no  account,  and  so 

131 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

to  make  a  stubborn  family  fight  of  it.  But  she  had  been 
simply  disarmed  and  beaten  down  by  William's  sweet- 
ness, patience,  and  good-humor.  Never  had  he  been  so 
determined,  and  never  so  lovable. 

It  had  been  made  abundantly  plain  to  her  that  no 
wife,  however  exacting  and  adorable,  should  ever  rob  her, 
his  mother,  of  one  tittle  of  his  old  affection — nay,  that, 
would  she  only  accept  Kitty,  only  take  the  little  forlorn 
creature  into  the  shelter  of  her  motherly  arms,  even  a 
more  tender  and  devoted  attention  than  before,  on  the 
part  of  her  son,  would  be  surely  hers.  He  spoke,  more- 
over, the  language  of  sound  sense  about  his  proposed 
bride.  That  he  was  in  love,  passionately  in  love,  was 
evident;  but  there  were  moments  when  he  could  discuss 
Kitty,  her  family,  her  bringing-up,  her  gifts  and  defects, 
with  the  same  cool  acumen,  the  same  detachment,  ap- 
parently, he  might  have  given,  say,  to  the  Egyptian 
or  the  Balkan  problem.  Lady  Tranmore  was  not  in- 
vited to  bow  before  a  divinity;  she  was  asked  to  accept 
a  very  gifted  and  lovely  child,  often  troublesome  and 
provoking,  but  full  of  a  glorious  promise  which  only 
persons  of  discernment,  like  herself  and  Ashe,  could  fully 
realize.  He  told  her,  with  a  laugh,  that  she  could  never 
have  behaved  even  tolerably  to  a  stupid  daughter-in- 
law.  Whereas,  let  London  and  society  and  a  few 
years  of  love  and  living  do  their  work,  and  Kitty  would 
make  one  of  the  leading  women  of  her  time,  as  Lady 
Tranmore  had  been  before  her.  "  You'll  help  her,  you'll 
train  her,  you'll  put  her  in  the  way,"  he  had  said,  kissing 
his  mother's  hand.  "And  you'll  see  that  in  the  end 
we  shall  both  of  us  be  so  conceited  to  have  had  the  mak- 
ing of  her  there'll  be  no  holding  us." 

132 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Well,  she  had  yielded  —  of  course  she  had  yielded. 
She  had  explained  the  matter,  so  far  as  she  could,  to  the 
dazed  wits  of  her  paralyzed  husband.  She  had  propiti- 
ated the  family  on  both  sides ;  she  had  brought  Kitty  to 
stay  with  her,  and  had  advised  on  the  negotiations  which 
banished  Madame  d'Estrees  from  London  and  the  British 
Isles,  in  return  for  a  handsome  allowance  and  the  pay- 
ment of  her  debts;  and,  finally,  she  had  with  difificulty 
allowed  the  Grosvilles  to  provide  the  trousseau  and 
arrange  the  marriage  from  Grosville  Park,  so  eager  had 
she  grown  in  her  accepted  task. 

And  there  had  been  many  hours  of  high  reward. 
Kitty  had  thrown  herself  at  first  upon  William's  mother 
with  all  the  effusion  possible.  She  had  been  docile, 
caressing,  brilliant.  Lady  Tranmore  had  become  al- 
most as  proud  of  her  gifts,  her  social  effect,  and  her  fast 
advancing  beauty  as  Ashe  himself.  Kitty's  whims  and 
humors;  her  passion  for  this  person,  and  her  hatred  of 
that;  her  love  of  splendor  and  indifference  to  debt;  her 
contempt  of  opinion  and  restraint,  seemed  to  her,  as  to 
Ashe,  the  mere  crude  growth  of  youth.  When  she  looked 
at  Ashe,  so  handsome,  agreeable,  and  devoted,  at  his 
place  and  prestige  in  the  world,  his  high  intelligence  and 
his  personal  attraction,  Ashe's  mother  must  needs  think 
that  Kitty's  mere  cleverness  would  soon  reveal  to  her  her 
extraordinary  good-fortune;  and  that  whereas  he  was 
now  at  her  feet,  she  before  long  would  be  at  his. 

Three  years!  Lady  Tranmore  looked  back  upon 
them  with  feelings  that  wavered  like  smoke  before  a 
wind.  A  year  of  excitement,  a  year  of  illness,  a  year  of 
extravagance,  shaken  moreover  by  many  strange  gusts 
of  temper  and  caprice,  it  was  so  she  might  have  sum- 

133 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

marized  them.  First,  a  most  promising  d^but  in  Lon- 
don. Kitty  welcomed  on  all  hands  with  enthusiasm  as 
Ashe's  wife  and  her  own  daughter-in-law,  feted  to  the 
top  of  her  bent,  smiled  on  at  Court,  flattered  by  the 
country-houses,  always  exquisitely  dressed,  smiling  and 
eager,  apparently  full  of  ambition  for  Ashe  no  less  than 
for  herself,  a  happy,  notorious,  busy  little  person,  with  a 
touch  of  wildness  that  did  but  give  edge  to  her  charm 
and  keep  the  world  talking. 

Then,  the  birth  of  the  boy,  and  Kitty's  passionate,  un- 
governable recoil  from  the  deformity  that  showed  itself 
almost  immediately  after  his  birth — a  form  of  infantile 
paralysis  involving  a  slight  but  incurable  lameness. 
Lady  Tranmore  could  recall  weeks  of  remorseful  fond- 
ling, alternating  with  weeks  of  neglect;  continued  illness 
and  depression  on  Kitty's  part,  settling  after  a  while 
into  a  petulant  melancholy  for  which  the  baby's  defect 
seemed  but  an  inadequate  cause;  Ashe's  tender  anxiety, 
his  willingness  to  throw  up  Parliament,  office,  every- 
thing, that  Kitty  might  travel  and  recover;  and  those 
huge  efforts  by  which  she  and  his  best  friends  in  the 
House  had  held  him  back — when  Kitty,  it  seemed,  oared 
little  or  nothing  whether  he  sacrificed  his  future  or  not. 
Finally,  she  herself,  with  the  assistance  of  a  new  friend 
of  Kitty's,  had  become  Kitty's  nurse,  had  taken  her 
abroad  when  Ashe  could  not  be  spared,  had  watched 
over  her,  and  humored  her,  and  at  last  brought  her 
back — so  the  doctors  said — restored. 

Was  it  really  recovery  ?  At  any  rate,  Lady  Tranmore 
was  often  inclined  to  think  that  since  the  return  to 
London — now  about  a  twelvemonth  since — both  she  and 
William  had  had  to  do  with  a  different  Kitty.     Young 

134 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

as  she  still  was,  the  first  exquisite  softness  of  the  ex- 
panding life  was  gone;  things  harder,  stranger,  more 
inexplicable  than  any  which  those  who  knew  her  best 
had  yet  perceived,  seemed  now  and  then  to  come  to  the 
surface,  like  wreckage  in  a  summer  sea. 

The  opening  door  disturbed  these  ponderings.  The 
nurse  appeared,  carrying  the  little  boy.  Lady  Tranmore 
took  him  on  her  knee  and  caressed  him.  He  was  a 
piteous,  engaging  child,  generally  very  docile,  but  liable 
at  times  to  storms  of  temper  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
fragility  of  his  small  person.  His  grandmother  was 
inclined  to  look  upon  his  passions  as  something  external 
and  inflicted — the  entering-in  of  the  Blackwater  devil  to 
plague  a  tiny  creature  that,  normally,  was  of  a  divine 
and  clinging  sweetness.  She  would  have  taught  him 
religion,  as  his  only  shield  against  himself;  but  neither 
his  father  nor  his  mother  was  religious;  and  Harry  was 
likely  to  grow  up  a  pagan. 

He  leaned  now  against  her  breast,  and  she,  whose 
inmost  nature  was  maternity,  delighted  in  the  pressure 
of  the  tiny  body,  crooning  songs  to  him  when  they 
were  left  alone,  and  pausing  now  and  then  to  pity  and 
kiss  the  little  shrunken  foot  that  hung  beside  the 
other. 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  soft  entrance  and  the  rustle 
of  a  dress. 

"Ah,  Margaret!"  she  said,  looking  round  and  smiling. 

The  girl  who  had  come  in  approached  her,  shook 
hands,  and  looked  down  at  the  baby.  She  was  fair- 
haired  and  wore  spectacles;  her  face  was  round  and 
childish,  her  eyes  round    and   blue,  with  certain  lines 

135 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

about  them,  however,  which  showed  that  she  was  no 
longer  in  her  first  youth. 

"  I  came  to  see  if  I  could  do  anything  to-day  for  Kitty. 
I  know  she  is  very  busy  about  the  ball — " 

"  Head  over  ears  apparently,"  said  Lady  Tranmore. 
"  Everybody  has  lost  their  wits.  I  see  Kitty  has  chosen 
her  dress." 

"  Yes,  if  Fanchette  can  make  it  all  right.  Poor  Kitty! 
She  has  been  in  such  a  state  of  mind.  I  think  I'll  go 
on  with  these  invitations." 

And,  taking  off  her  gloves  and  hat,  Margaret  French 
went  to  the  writing-table  like  one  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  room  and  its  affairs,  took  up  a  pile  of  cards  and 
envelopes  which  lay  upon  it,  and,  bringing  them  to  Lady 
Tranmore's  side,  began  to  work  upon  them. 

"I  did  about  half  yesterday,"  she  explained;  "but  I 
see  Kitty  hasn't  been  able  to  touch  them,  and  it  is  really 
time  they  were  out." 

"For  their  party  next  week?" 

"Yes.  I  hope  Kitty  won't  tire  herself  out.  It  has 
been  a  rush  lately." 

"Does  she  ever  rest?" 

"Never — as  far  as  I  can  see.  And  I  am  afraid  she 
has  been  very  much  worried." 

"About  that  silly  affair  with  Prince  Stephan?"  said 
Lady  Tranmore. 

Margaret  French  nodded.  "  She  vows  that  she  meant 
no  harm,  and  did  no  harm,  and  that  it  has  been  all 
malice  and  exaggeration.  But  one  can  see  she  has;  been 
hurt." 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  hf  a  low 
voice,  "I  think  she  deserved  to  be." 

136 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Their  eyes  met,  the  girl's  full  of  a  half-smiling,  half- 
soft  consideration.  Lady  Tranmore,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  flushed  proudly,  as  though  the  mere  mention  of  the 
matter  to  which  she  had  referred  had  been  galling  to  her. 
Kitty,  in  fact,  had  just  been  guilty  of  an  escapade  which 
had  set  the  town  talking,  and  even  found  its  way  here 
and  there  in  the  newspapers.  The  heir  to  a  European 
monarchy  had  been  recently  visiting  London.  A  ro- 
mantic interest  surrounded  him;  for  a  lady,  not  of  a  rank 
sufficiently  high  to  mate  with  his,  had  lately  drowned 
herself  for  love  of  him,  and  the  young  man's  melancholy 
good  looks,  together  with  the  magnificent  apathy  of  his 
manner,  drew  after  him  a  chain  of  gossip.  Kitty  failed 
to  meet  him  in  society ;  certain  invitations  that  for  once 
she  coveted  did  not  arrive;  and  in  a  fit  of  pique  she  de- 
clared that  she  would  make  acquaintance  with  him  in  her 
own  way.  On  a  certain  occasion,  when  the  Princeling 
was  at  the  play,  his  attention  was  drawn  to  a  small  and 
dazzling  creature  in  a  box  opposite  his  own.  Presently, 
however,  there  was  a  commotion  in  this  box.  The  daz- 
zling creature  had  fainted;  and  rumor  sent  round  the 
name  of  Lady  Kitty  Ashe.  The  Prince  despatched  an 
equerry  to  make  inquiries,  and  the  inquiries  were  repeated 
that  evening  in  Hill  Street.  Recovery  was  prompt,  and 
the  Prince  let  it  be  known  that  he  wished  to  meet  the 
lady.  Invitations  from  high  quarters  descended  upon 
Kitty ;  she  bore  herself  with  an  engaging  carelessness,  and 
the  melancholy  youth  was  soon  spending  far  more  pains 
upon  her  than  he  had  yet  been  known  to  spend  upon  any 
other  English  beauties  presented  to  him.  Ashe  and 
Kitty's  friends  laughed ;  the  old  general  in  charge  of  the 
Princeling  took  alarm.    And  presently  Kitty's  audacities, 

137 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

alack,  carried  away  her  discretion;  she  began,  moreover, 
to  boast  of  her  ruse.  Whispers  crept  round ;  and  the  gen- 
eral's ears  were  open.  In  a  few  days  Kitty's  triumph 
went  the  way  of  all  earthly  things.  At  a  Court  ball,  to 
which  her  vanity  had  looked  forward,  unwarned,  the 
Prince  passed  her  with  glassy  eyes,  returning  the  barest 
bow  to  her  smiling  courtesy.  She  betrayed  nothing ;  but 
somehow  the  thing  got  out,  and  set  in  motion  a  perfect 
hurricane  of  talk.  It  was  rumored  that  the  old  Prime 
Minister,  Lord  Parham,  had  himself  said  a  caustic  word 
to  Lady  Kitty,  that  Royalty  was  annoyed,  and  that 
William  Ashe  had  for  once  scolded  his  wife  seriously. 

Lady  Tranmore  was  well  aware  that  there  was,  at  any 
rate,  no  truth  in  the  last  report ;  but  she  also  knew  that 
there  was  a  tone  of  sharpness  in  the  London  chatter 
that  was  new  with  regard  to  Kitty.  It  was  as  though  a 
certain  indulgence  was  wearing  out,  and  what  had  been 
amusement  was  passing  into  criticism. 

She  and  Margaret  French  discussed  the  matter  a 
little,  sotto  voce,  while  Margaret  went  on  with  the  invita- 
tions and  Lady  Tranmore  made  a  French  toy  dance  and 
spin  for  the  babe's  amusement.  Their  tone  was  one  of 
close  and  friendly  intimacy,  an  intimacy  based  clearly 
upon  one  common  interest  —  their  relation  to  Kitty. 
Margaret  French  was  one  of  those  beings  in  whom,  for 
our  salvation,  this  halting,  hurried  world  of  ours  is  still 
on  the  whole  rich.  She  was  unmarried,  thirty-five,  and 
poor.  She  lived  with  her  brother,  a  struggling  doctor, 
and  she  had  come  across  Kitty  in  the  first  months  of 
Kitty's  married  life,  on  some  fashionable  Soldiers'  Aid 
Committee,  where  Margaret  had  done  the  work  and 
Kitty  with  the  other  great  ladies  had  reaped  the  fame. 

138 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Kitty  had  developed  a  fancy  for  her,  and  presently  could 
not  live  without  her.  But  Margaret,  though  it  soon  be- 
came evident  that  she  had  taken  Kitty  and,  in  due  time, 
the  child — Ashe,  too,  for  the  matter  of  that — deep  into 
her  generous  heart,  preserved  a  charming  measure  in  the 
friendship  offered  her.  She  would  owe  Kitty  nothing, 
either  socially  or  financially.  When  Kitty's  smart 
friends  appeared,  she  vanished.  Nobody  in  her  own 
world  ever  heard  her  mention  the  name  of  Lady  Kitty 
Ashe,  largely  as  that  name  was  beginning  to  figure  in 
the  gossip  of  the  day.  But  there  were  few  things  con- 
cerning the  Hill  Street  menage  that  Lady  Tranmore 
could  not  safely  and  rightly  discuss  with  her;  and  even 
Ashe  himself  went  to  her  for  counsel. 

"I  am  afraid  this  has  made  things  worse  than  ever 
with  the  Parhams,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  presently. 

Margaret  shook  her  head  anxiously. 

"I  hope  Kitty  won't  throw  over  their  dinner  next 
week." 

"She  is  talking  of  it!" 

"Yesterday  she  had  almost  made  up  her  mind,"  said 
Margaret,  reluctantly.  "  Perhaps  you  will  persuade  her. 
But  she  has  been  terribly  angry  with  Lord  Parham — 
and  with  Lady  P.,  too." 

"And  it  was  to  be  a  reconciliation  dinner,  after  the  old 
nonsense  between  her  and  Lady  Parham,"  sighed  Lady 
Tranmore.  "  It  was  planned  for  Kitty  entirely.  And  she 
is  to  act  something,  isn't  she,  with  that  young  De  La 
Riviere  from  the  embassy  ?  I  believe  the  Princess  is 
coming — expressly  to  meet  her.  I  have  been  hearing  of 
it  on  all  sides.     She  can't  throw  it  over!" 

Margaret  shrugged  her  shoulders.    "  I  believe  she  will." 
*9  J39 


The    Marriage    of  V/illiara    Ashe 

The  older  lady's  face  showed  a  sudden  cloud  of 
indignation. 

"  William  must  really  put  his  foot  down,"  she  said,  in  a 
low,  decided  voice.  "It  is,  of  course,  most  important — 
just  now — " 

She  said  no  more,  but  Margaret  French  looked  up,  and 
they  exchanged  glances. 

"Let's  hope,"  said  Margaret,  "that  Mr.  Ashe  will  be 
able  to  pacify  her.     Ah,  there  she  is." 

For  the  front  door  closed  heavily,  and  instantly  the 
house  was  aware  from  top  to  toe  of  a  flutter  of  talk  and  a 
frou-frou  of  skirts.  Kitty  ran  up  the  stairs  and  into  the 
drawing-room,  still  talking,  apparently,  to  the  footman 
behind  her,  and  stopped  short  at  the  sight  of  Lady 
Tranmore  and  Margaret.  A  momentary  shadow  passed 
across  her  face;  then  she  came  forward  all  smiles. 

"Why,  they  never  told  me  down-stairs!"  she  said, 
taking  a  hand  of  each  caressingly,  and  slipping  into  a 
seat  between  them.     "Have  I  lost  much  of  you?" 

"Well,  I  must  soon  be  off,"  said  Lady  Tranmore. 
^' Harry  has  been  entertaining  me." 

"Oh,  Harry;  is  he  there?"  said  Kitty,  in  another 
voice,  perceiving  the  child  behind  his  grandmother's 
dress  as  he  sat  on  the  floor,  where  Lady  Tranmore  had 
just  deposited  him. 

The  baby  turned  towards  his  beautiful  mother,  and,  as 
he  saw  her,  a  little  wandering  smile  began  to  spread  from 
his  uncertain  lips  to  his  deep-brown  eyes,  till  his  whole 
face  shone,  held  to  hers  as  to  a  magnet,  in  a  still  en- 
chantment. 

"Come!"  said  Kitty,  holding  out  her  hands. 

With  difficulty  the  child  pulled  himself  towards  her, 

140 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

moving  in  sideway  fashion  along  the  floor,  and  dragging 
the  helpless  foot  after  him.  Again  the  shadow  crossed 
Kitty's  face.  She  caught  him  up,  kissed  him,  and 
moved  to  ring  the  bell. 

"Shall  I  take  him  up-stairs?"  said  Margaret. 

"Why,  he  seems  to  have  only  just  come  down!"  said 
Lady  Tranmore.     "Must  he  go?" 

"He  can  come  down  again  afterwards,"  said  Kitty. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you.     Take  him,  Margaret." 

The  babe  went  without  a  whimper,  still  following  his 
mother  with  his  eyes. 

"He  looks  rather  frail,"  said  Lady  Tranmore.  "I 
hope  you'll  soon  be  sending  him  to  the  country,  Kitty." 

"He's  very  well,"  said  Kitty.  Then  she  took  off  her 
hat  and  looked  at  the  invitations  Margaret  had  been 
writing. 

"Heavens,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  them!  What 
an  angel  is  Margaret!  I  really  can't  remember  these 
things.  They  ought  to  do  themselves  by  clock-work. 
And  now  Fanchette  and  this  ball  are  enough  to  drive 
one  wild." 

She  lifted  her  hands  to  her  face  and  pressed  back  the 
masses  of  fair  hair  that  were  tumbling  round  it,  with  a 
gesture  of  weariness. 

"Fanchette  can  make  your  dress?" 

"She  says  she  will,  but  I  couldn't  make  her  under- 
stand anything  I  wanted.  She  is  off  her  head!  They 
all  are.  By-the-way,  did  you  hear  of  Madeleine  Alcot's 
telegram  to  Worth?" 

"No." 

Kitty  laughed — a  laugh  musical  but  malicious.  Mrs. 
Alcot,  married  in  the  same  month  as  herself,  had  been 

141 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

her  companion  and  rival  from  the  beginning.  They 
called  each  other  "Kitty"  and  "Madeleine,"  and  saw 
each  other  frequently;  why,  Lady  Tranmore  could  never 
discover,  unless  on  the  principle  that  it  is  best  to  keep 
your  enemy  under  observation. 

"She  telegraphed  to  Worth  as  soon  as  her  invitation 
arrived,  'Envoyez  tout  de  suite  costume  Venus.  Rd- 
ponse.'  The  answer  came  at  dinner — she  had  a  dinner- 
party— and  she  read  it  aloud:  ' Remerciments.  II  n'y 
en  a  pas.'     Isn't  it  delightful?" 

"Very  neat,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  smiling.  "When 
did  you  invent  that?     You,  I  hear,  are  to  be  Diana?" 

Kitty  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Ask  Fanchette — it  depends  on  her.  There  is  no  one 
but  she  in  London  who  can  do  it.  Oh,  by-the-way, 
what's  Mary  going  to  be  ?  I  suppose  a  Madonna  of 
sorts." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  dryly;  "she  has 
chosen  a  Sir  Joshua  costume  I  found  for  her." 

"A  vocation  missed,"  said  Kitty,  shaking  her  head. 
"She  ought  to  have  been  a  'Vestal  Virgin'  at  least.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  that  you  look  such  a  duck  this  afternoon!" 
The  speaker  put  up  two  small  hands  and  pulled  and 
patted  at  the  black  lace  strings  of  Lady  Tranmore's  hat, 
which  were  tied  under  the  delicately  wrinkled  white  of 
her  very  distinguished  chin. 

"This  hat  suits  you  so — you  are  such  a  grandc  dame 
in  it.     Ah!     Je  t'adore!" 

And  Kitty  softly  took  the  chin  aforesaid  into  her 
hands,  and  dropped  a  kiss  on  Lady  Tranmore's  cheek, 
which  reddened  a  little  under  the  sudden  caress. 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,  Kitty."  But  Elizabeth  Tranmore 
142 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

stooped  forward  all  the  same  and  returned  the  kiss 
heartily.  "Now  tell  me  what  you're  going  to  wear  at 
the  Parhams'." 

Kitty  rose  deliberately,  went  to  the  bell  and  rang  it. 

"It  must  be  quite  time  for  tea." 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,  Kitty." 

"Haven't  I?"  The  butler  entered.  "Tea,  please, 
Wilson,  at  once." 

"Kitty!—" 

Lady  Kitty  seated  herself  defiantly  a  short  distance 
from  her  mother-in-law  and  crossed  her  hands  on  her 
lap. 

"I  am  not  going  to  the  Parhams'." 

"Kitty! — what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  the  Parhams',"  repeated  Kitty, 
slowly.  "They  should  behave  a  little  more  consider- 
ately to  me  if  they  want  to  get  me  to  amuse  their  guests 
for  them." 

At  this  moment  Margaret  French  re  -  entered  the 
room.  Lady  Tranmore  turned  to  her  with  a  gesture  of 
distress. 

"Oh,  Margaret  knows,"  said  Kitty.  "I  told  her  yes- 
terday." 

"The  Parhams?"  said  Margaret. 

Kitty  nodded.  Margaret  paused,  with  her  hand  on 
the  back  of  Lady  Tranmore's  chair,  and  there  was  a 
short  silence.  Then  Lady  Tranmore  began,  in  a  tone 
that  endeavored  not  to  be  too  serious: 

"I  don't  know  how  you're  going  to  get  out  of  it, 
my  dear.  Lady  Parham  has  asked  the  Princess,  first 
because  she  wished  to  come,  secondly  as  an  olive-branch 
to  you.     She  has  taken  the  greatest  pains  about  the 

143 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

dinner;  and  afterwards  there  is  to  be  an  evening  party 
to  hear  you,  just  the  right  size,  and  just  the  right 
people." 

"  Cela  m'est  6gal,"  said  Kitty,  "  par-faite-ment  dgal!  I 
am  not  going." 

"What  possible  excuse  can  you  invent?" 

"I  shall  have  a  cold,  the  most  atrocious  cold  imagi- 
nable. I  take  to  my  bed  just  two  hours  before  it  is  time 
to  dress.  My  letter  reaches  Lady  Parham  on  the  stroke 
of  eight." 

"  Kitt}'-,  you  would  be  doing  a  thing  perfectly  unheard 
of — most  rude — most  unkind!" 

The  stiff,  slight  figure,  like  a  strained  wand,  did  not 
waver  for  a  moment  before  the  grave  indignation  of  the 
older  woman. 

"I  should  for  once  be  pajang  off  a  score  that  has  run 
on  too  long." 

"You  and  Lady  Parham  had  agreed  to  make  friends, 
and  let  bygones  be  bygones." 

"That  was  before  last  week." 

"Before  Lord  Parham  said — what  annoyed  you?" 

Kitty's  eyes  flamed. 

"Before  Lord  Parham  humiliated  me  in  public — or 
tried  to." 

"  Dear  Kitty,  he  was  annoyed,  and  said  a  sharp  thing ; 
but  he  is  an  old  man,  and  for  William's  sake,  surely,  you 
can  forgive  it.  And  Lady  Parham  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it." 

"She  has  not  written  to  me  to  apologize,"  said  Kitty, 
with  a  most  venomous  calm.  "Don't  talk  about  it, 
mother.  It  will  hurt  you,  and  I  am  determined.  Lady 
Parham  has   patronized   or   snubbed   me   ever  since    1 

144 


The   Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

married — when  she  hasn't  been  setting  my  best  friends 
against  me.  She  is  false,  false,  false!"  Kitty  struck 
her  hands  together  with  an  emphatic  gesture.  "And 
Lord  Parham  said  a  thing  to  me  last  week  I  shall  never 
forgive.     Voila  !     Now  I  mean  to  have  done  with  it  !" 

"And  you  choose  to  forget  altogether  that  Lord  Par- 
ham  is  William's  political  chief — that  William's  affairs 
are  in  a  critical  state,  and  everything  depends  on  Lord 
Parham  —  that  it  is  not  seemly,  not  possible,  that 
William's  wife  should  publicly  slight  Lady  Parham,  and 
through  her  the  Prime  Minister — at  this  moment  of  all 
moments." 

Lady  Tranmore  breathed  fast. 

"William  will  not  expect  me  to  put  up  with  insults," 
said  Kitty,  also  beginning  to  show  emotion. 

"But  can't  you  see  that — just  now  especially — you 
ought  to  think  of  nothing — nothing — but  William's  future 
and  William's  career?" 

"William  will  never  purchase  his  career  at  my  ex- 
pense." 

"  Kitty,  dear,  listen,"  cried  Lady  Tranmore,  in  despair, 
and  she  threw  herself  into  arguments  and  appeals  to 
which  Kitty  listened  quite  unmoved  for  some  twenty 
minutes.  Margaret  French,  feeling  herself  an  uncomfort- 
able third,  tried  several  times  to  steal  away.  In  vain. 
Kitty's  peremptory  hand  retained  her.  She  could  not 
escape,  much  as  she  wished  it,  from  the  wrestle  between 
the  two  women — on  the  one  side  the  mother,  noble, 
already  touched  with  age,  full  of  dignity  and  protesting 
affection;  on  the  other  the  wife,  still  little  more  than  a 
child  in  years,  vibrating  through  all  her  slender  frame 
with  passion  and  insolence,  more  beautiful  than  usual  by 

145 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

virtue  of  the  very  fire  which  possessed  her — a  maenad 
at  bay. 

Lady  Tranmore  had  just  begun  to  waver  in  a  final 
despair  when  the  door  opened  and  Wilham  Ashe  en- 
tered. 

He  looked  in  astonishment  at  his  mother  and  wife. 
Then  in  a  flash  he  understood,  and,  with  an  involuntary 
gesture  of  fatigue,  he  turned  to  go. 

"William!"  cried  his  mother,  hurrying  after  him, 
"don't  go.  Kitty  and  I  were  disputing;  but  it  is  noth- 
ing, dear!  Don't  go,  you  look  so  tired.  Can  you  stay 
for  dinner?" 

"Well,  that  was  my  intention,"  said  Ashe,  with  a 
smile,  as  he  allowed  himself  to  be  brought  back.  "But 
Kitty  seems  in  the  clouds." 

For  Kitty  had  not  moved  an  inch  to  greet  him.  She 
sat  in  a  high-back  chair,  one  foot  crossed  over  the 
other,  one  hand  supporting  her  cheek,  looking  straight 
before  her  with  shining  eyes. 

Lady  Tranmore  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"We  won't  talk  any  more  about  it  now,  Kitty,  will 
we?" 

Kitty's  pinched  lips  opened  enough  to  emit  the 
words : 

"Perhaps  William  had  better  understand — " 

"Goodness!"  cried  Ashe.  "Is  it  the  Parhams?  Send 
them,  Kitty,  if  you  please,  to  ten  thousand  diables ! 
You  won't  go  to  their  dinner?  Well,  don't  go!  Please 
yourself — and  hang  the  expense!  Come  and  give  me 
some  dinner — there's  a  dear." 

He  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  hair. 

Lady  Tranmore  began  to  speak;  then,  with  a  mighty 
146 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

effort,  restrained  herself  and  began  to  look  for  her  parasol. 
Kitty  did  not  move.  Lady  Tranmore  said  a  muffled 
good-bye  and  went.  And  this  time  Margaret  French 
insisted  on  going  with  her. 

When  Ashe  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  he  found 
his  wife  still  in  the  same  position,  very  pale  and  very 
wild. 

"I  have  told  your  mother,  William,  what  I  intend  to 
do  about  the  Parhams." 

"Very  well,  dear.     Now  she  knows." 

"  She  says  it  will  ruin  your  career." 

"  Did  she  ?  We'll  talk  about  that  presently.  We  have 
had  a  nasty  scene  in  the  House  with  the  Irishmen,  and 
I'm  famished.  Go  and  change,  there's  a  dear.  Dinner's 
just  coming  in." 

Kitty  went  reluctantly.  She  came  down  in  a  white, 
flowing  garment,  with  a  small  green  wreath  in  her  hair, 
which,  together  with  the  air  of  a  storm  which  still  en- 
wrapped her,  made  her  more  msnad-like  than  ever. 
Ashe  took  no  notice,  gave  her  a  laughing  account  of 
what  had  passed  in  the  House,  and  ate  his  dinner. 

Afterwards,  when  they  were  alone,  and  he  was  just 
about  to  return  to  the  House,  she  made  a  swift  rush 
across  the  dining-room,  and  caught  his  coat  with  both 
hands. 

"  William,  I  can't  go  to  that  dinner — it  would  kill 
mel" 

"How  you  repeat  yourself,  darling!"  he  said,  with  a 
smile.  "I  suppose  you'll  give  Lady  Parham  decent 
notice.  What  '11  you  do  ?  Get  a  doctor's  certificate  and 
go  away?" 

147 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Kitty  panted.  "  Not  at  all.  I  shall  not  tell  her  till  an 
hour  before." 

Ashe  whistled. 

"War?  I  see.  Open  war.  Very  well.  Then  we 
shall  get  to  Venice  for  Easter." 

Kitty  fell  back. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Very  plain,  isn't  it?  But  what  does  it  matter? 
Venice  will  be  delightful,  and  there  are  plenty  of  good 
men  to  take  my  place." 

"Lord  Parham  would  pass  you  over?" 

"Not  at  all.  But  I  can't  work  in  public  with  a  man 
whom  I  must  cut  in  private.  It  wouldn't  amuse  me. 
So  if  you're  decided,  Kitty,  write  to  Danieli's  for  rooms." 

He  lit  his  cigarette,  and  went  out  with  a  perfect  non- 
chalance and  good-temper,  , 

Kitty  was  to  have  gone  to  a  ball.  She  countermanded 
her  maid's  preparations,  and  sent  the  maid  to  bed.  In 
due  time  all  the  servants  went  to  bed,  the  front  door 
being  left  on  the  latch  as  usual  for  Ashe's  late  return. 
About  midnight  a  little  figure  slipped  into  the  child's 
nursery.  The  nurse  was  fast  asleep.  Kitty  sat  beside 
the  child,  motionless,  for  an  hour,  and  when  Ashe  let 
himself  into  the  house  about  two  o'clock  he  heard  a  little 
rustle  in  the  hall,  and  there  stood  Kitty,  waiting  for  him. 

"Kitty,  what  are  you  about?"  he  said,  in  pretended 
amazement.  But  in  reality  he  was  not  astonished  at  all. 
His  life  for  months  past  had  been  pitched  in  a  key  of 
extravagance  and  tumult.  He  had  been  practically 
certain  that  he  should  find  Kitty  in  the  hall. 

With  great  tenderness  he  half  led,  half  carried  her 

148 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

up-stairs.  She  clung  to  him  as  passionately  as,  before 
dinner,  she  had  repulsed  him.  When  they  reached  their 
room,  the  tired  man,  dropping  with  sleep,  after  a  Parlia- 
mentary wrestle  in  which  every  faculty  had  been  taxed 
to  the  utmost,  took  his  wife  in  his  arms;  and  there  Kitty 
sobbed  and  talked  herself  into  a  peace  of  complete 
exhaustion.  In  this  state  she  was  one  of  the  most 
exquisite  of  human  beings,  with  words,  tone,  and  gestures 
of  a  heavenly  softness  and  languor.  The  evil  spirit  went 
out  of  her,  and  she  was  all  ethereal  tenderness,  sadness, 
and  remorse.  For  more  than  two  years,  scenes  like  this 
had,  in  Ashe's  case,  melted  into  final  delight  and  intoxi- 
cation which  more  than  effaced  the  memory  of  what 
had  gone  before.  Now  for  several  months  he  had  dread- 
ed the  issue  of  the  crisis,  no  less  than  the  crisis  itself.  It 
left  him  unnerved  as  though  some  morbid  sirocco  had 
passed  over  him. 

When  Kitty  at  last  had  fallen  asleep,  Ashe  stood  for 
some  time  beside  his  dressing-room  window,  looking 
absently  into  the  cloudy  night,  too  tired  even  to  undress. 
A  gusty  northwest  wind  tore  down  the  street  and  beat 
against  the  windows.  The  unrest  without  increased  the 
tension  of  his  mind  and  body.  Like  Lady  Tranmore, 
he  had,  as  it  were,  stepped  back  from  his  life,  and  was 
looking  at  it — the  last  three  years  of  it  in  particular — as 
a  whole.  What  was  the  net  result  of  those  years  ? 
Where  was  he  ?  Whither  were  he  and  Kitty  going  ?  A 
strange  pang  shot  through  him.  The  mere  asking  of 
the  question  had  been  as  the  lifting  of  the  lamp  of 
Psyche. 

The  scene  that  night  in  the  House  of  Commons  had 
been  for  him  a  scene  of  conflict;  in  the  main,  also,  of 

149 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

victory.  His  virile  powers,  capacities,  and  ambitions 
had  been  at  their  height.  He  had  felt  the  full  spell  of 
the  English  political  life,  with  all  its  hard  fighting  joy, 
the  exhilaration  which  flows  from  the  vastness  of  the 
interests  on  which  it  turns,  and  the  intricate  appeal  it 
makes,  in  the  case  of  a  man  like  himself,  to  a  hundred 
inherited  aptitudes,  tastes,  and  traditions. 

And  here  he  stood  in  the  darkness,  wondering  whether 
indeed  the  best  of  his  life  were  not  over — the  prey  of 
forebodings  as  strong  and  vagrant  as  the  gusts  outside. 

Birds  of  the  night!  He  forced  himself  to  bed,  and 
slept  heavily.  When  he  woke  up,  the  May  sun  was  shin- 
ing into  his  room.  Kitty,  in  the  freshest  of  morning 
dresses,  was  sitting  on  his  bed  like  a  perching  bird,  wait- 
ing impatiently  till  his  eyes  should  open  and  she  could 
ask  him  his  opinion  on  her  dress  for  the  ball.  The 
savor  and  joy  of  life  returned  upon  him  in  a  flood. 
Kitty  was  the  prettiest  thing  ever  seen ;  he  had  scored 
off  those  Tory  fellows  the  night  before;  the  Parhams' 
dinner  was  all  right;  and  life  was  once  more  kind, 
manageable,  and  full  of  the  most  agreeable  possibilities. 
A  certain  indolent  impatience  in  him  recoiled  from  the 
mere  recollection  of  the  night  before.  The  worry  was 
over ;  why  think  of  it  again  ? 


M 


VIII 

E  AN  WHILE  Lady  Tranmore  had  reached  home, 
and  after  one  of  those  pathetic  hours  in  her  hus- 
band's room  which  made  the  secret  and  sacred  founda- 
tion of  her  daily  Hfe,  she  expected  Mary  Lyster,  who  was 
to  dine  at  Tranmore  House  before  the  two  ladies  present- 
ed themselves  at  a  musical  party  given  by  the  French 
Ambassadress.  Before  her  guest's  arrival,  Lady  Tran- 
more wandered  about  her  rooms,  unable  to  rest,  unable 
even  to  read  the  evening  papers,  on  Ashe's  speech,  so 
possessed  was  she  still  by  her  altercation  with  Kitty,  and 
by  the  foreboding  sense  of  what  it  meant.  William's 
future  was  threatened;  and  the  mother  whose  whole 
proud  heart  had  been  thrown  for  years  into  every  suc- 
cessful effort  and  every  upward  step  of  her  son,  was 
up  in  arms. 

Mary  Lyster  arrived  to  the  minute.  She  came  in,  a 
tall  gliding  woman,  her  hair  falling  in  rippled  waves  on 
either  side  of  her  face,  which  in  its  ample  comeliness 
and  placidity  reminded  the  Italianate  Lady  Tranmore 
of  many  faces  well  known  to  her  in  early  Siennese  or 
Florentine  art.  Mary's  dress  to-night  was  of  a  noble 
red,  and  the  glossy  brown  of  her  hair  made  a  harmony 
both  with  her  dress  and  with  the  whiteness  of  her  neck 
that  contented  the  fastidious  eye  of  her  companion. 
"Polly"  was  now  thirty,  in  the  prime  of  her  good  looks. 

151 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Lady  Tranmore's  affection  for  her,  which  had  at  one 
time  even  included  the  notion  that  she  might  possibly 
become  William  Ashe's  wife,  did  not  at  all  interfere 
with  a  shrewd  understanding  of  her  limitations.  But  she 
was  daughterless  herself;  her  family  feeling  was  strong; 
and  Mary's  society  was  an  old  and  pleasant  habit  one 
could  ill  have  parted  with.  In  her  company,  moreover, 
Mary  was  at  her  best. 

Elizabeth  Tranmore  never  discussed  her  daughter-in- 
law  with  her  cousin.  Loyalty  to  William  forbade  it,  no 
less  than  a  strong  sense  of  family  dignity.  For  Mary  had 
spoken  once — immediately  after  the  engagement — with 
energy — nay,  with  passion ;  prophesying  woe  and  calam- 
ity. Thenceforward  it  was  tacitly  agreed  between  them 
that  all  root-and-branch  criticism  of  Kitty  and  her  ways 
was  taboo.  Mary  was,  indeed,  on  apparently  good  terms 
with  her  cousin's  wife.  She  dined  occasionally  at  the 
Ashes',  and  she  and  Kitty  met  frequently  under  the  wing 
of  Lady  Tranmore.  There  was  no  cordiality  between 
them,  and  Kitty  was  often  sharply  or  sulkily  certain  that 
Mary  was  to  be  counted  among  those  hostile  forces  with 
which,  in  some  of  her  moods,  the  world  seemed  to  her  to 
bristle.  But  if  Mary  kept,  in  truth,  a  very  sharp  tongue 
for  many  of  her  intimates  on  the  subject  of  Kitty,  Lady 
Tranmore  at  least  was  determined  to  know  nothing 
about  it. 

On  this  particular  evening,  however.  Lady  Tranmore's 
self-control  failed  her,  for  the  first  time  in  three  years. 
She  had  not  talked  five  minutes  with  her  guest  before 
she  perceived  that  Mary's  mind  was,  in  truth,  brimful  of 
gossip — the  gossip  of  many  drawing-rooms — as  to  Kitty's 
escapade  with  the  Prince,  Kitty's  relations  to  Lady  Par- 

152 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ham,  Kitty's  parties,  and  Kitty's  whims.  The  tempta- 
tion was  too  great;  her  own  guard  broke  down. 

"  I  hear  Kitty  is  furious  with  the  Parhams,"  said  Mary, 
as  the  two  ladies  sat  together  after  their  rapid  dinner.  It 
was  a  rainy  night,  and  the  fire  to  which  they  had  drawn 
up  was  welcome. 

Lady  Tranmore  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I  don't  know  where  it  is  to  end,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"Lady  Parham  told  me  yesterday — you  don't  mind 
my  repeating  it?" — Mary  looked  up  with  a  smile — ■ 
"she  was  still  dreadfully  afraid  that  Kitty  would  play 
her  some  trick  about  next  Friday.  She  knows  that  Kitty 
detests  her." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  in  a  vague  voice, 
"Kitty  couldn't — impossible!" 

Mary  turned  an  observant  eye  upon  her  companion's 
conscious  and  troubled  air,  and  drew  conclusions  not  far 
from  the  truth. 

"And  it's  all  so  awkward,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  with 
sympathy,  "when  apparently  Lady  Parham  is  as  much 
Prime  Minister  as  he  is." 

For  in  those  days  certain  great  houses  and  political 
ladies,  though  not  at  the  zenith  of  their  power,  were  still, 
in  their  comparative  decline,  very  much  to  be  reckoned 
with.  When  Lady  Parham  talked  longer  than  usual 
with  the  French  Ambassador,  his  Austrian  and  German 
colleagues  wrote  anxious  despatches  to  their  govern- 
ments; when  a  special  mission  to  the  East  of  great  im- 
portance had  to  be  arranged,  nobody  imagined  that  Lord 
Parham  had  very  much  to  do  with  the  appointment  of 
the  commissioner,  who  happened  to  have  just  engaged 
himself  to  Lady  Parham's  second  girl.     No  young  mem- 

153 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ber  on  the  government  side,  if  he  wanted  office,  neglected 
Lady  Parham's  invitations,  and  admission  to  her  more 
intimate  dinners  was  still  almost  as  much  coveted  as 
similar  favors  had  been  a  generation  before  in  the  case  of 
Lady  Jersey,  or  still  earlier,  in  that  of  Lady  Holland. 
She  was  a  small  old  woman,  with  a  shrewish  face,  a 
waxen  complexion,  and  a  brown  wig.  In  spite  of  short 
sight,  she  saw  things  that  escaped  most  other  people;  her 
tongue  was  rarel}''  at  a  loss;  she  was,  on  the  whole,  a 
good  friend,  though  never  an  unreflecting  one;  and  what 
she  forgave  might  be  safely  reckoned  as  not  worth 
resenting. 

Elizabeth  Tranmore  received  Mary's  remark  with 
reluctant  consent.  Lady  Parham  —  from  the  English 
aristocratic  stand-point — was  not  well-born.  She  had 
been  the  daughter  of  a  fashionable  music-master,  whose 
blood  was  certainly  not  Christian.  And  there  were 
many  people  beside  Lady  Tranmore  who  resented  her 
domination. 

"It  will  be  so  perfectly  easy  when  the  moment  comes 
to  invent  some  excuse  or  other  for  shelving  William's 
claims,"  sighed  Ashe's  mother.  "  Nobody  is  indispensa- 
ble, and  if  that  old  woman  is  provoked,  she  will  be 
capable  of  any  mischief." 

"  What  do  you  want  for  William  ?"  said  Mary,  smiling. 

"He  ought,  of  course,  to  have  the  Home  Office!"  re- 
plied Lady  Tranmore,  with  fire. 

Mary  vowed  that  he  would  certainly  have  it.  "  Kitty 
is  so  clever,  she  will  understand  how  important  discre- 
tion is,  before  things  go  too  far." 

Lady  Tranmore  made  no  answer.  She  gazed  into  the 
fire,  and  Miss  Lyster  thought  her  depressed. 

154 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

"  Has  William  ever  interfered  ?"  she  asked,  cautiously. 

Lady  Tranmore  hesitated. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  Nor  will  he 
ever — in  the  sense  in  whieh  any  ordinary  husband  would 
interfere." 

"I  know!  It  is  as  though  he  had  a  kind  of  supersti- 
tion about  it.  Isn't  there  a  fairy  story,  in  which  an 
elf  marries  a  mortal  on  condition  that  if  he  ever  ill-treats 
her,  her  people  will  fetch  her  back  to  fairyland  ?  One 
day  the  husband  lost  his  temper  and  spoke  crossly;  in- 
stantly there  was  a  crash  of  thunder  and  the  elf-wife 
vanished." 

"I  don't  remember  the  story.  But  it's  like  that — 
exactly.  He  said  to  me  once  that  he  would  never  have 
asked  her  to  marry  him  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  let  her  have  her  own  way — never  to 
coerce  her." 

But  having  said  this.  Lady  Tranmore  repented.  It 
seemed  to  her  she  had  been  betraying  William's  affairs. 
She  drew  her  chair  back  from  the  fire,  and  rang  to  ask  if 
the  carriage  had  arrived.  Mary  took  the  hint.  She 
arrayed  herself  in  her  cloak,  and  chatted  agreeably 
about  other  things  till  the  moment  for  their  departure 
came. 

As  they  drove  through  the  streets,  Lady  Tranmore 
stole  a  glance  at  her  companion. 

"She  is  really  very  handsome,"  she  thought — "much 
better-looking  than  she  was  at  twenty.  What  are  the 
men  about,  not  to  marry  her?" 

It  was  indeed  a  puzzle.  For  Mary  was  increasingly 
agreeable  as  the  years  went  on,  and  had  now  quite  a 
position  of  her  own  in  London,  as  a  charming  woman 
"  155 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

without  angles  or  apparent  egotisms ;  one  of  the  initiated 
besides,  whom  any  dinner-party  might  be  glad  to  capt- 
ure. Her  relations,  near  and  distant,  held  so  many  of 
the  points  of  vantage  in  English  public  life  that  her 
word  inevitably  carried  weight.  She  talked  politics,  as 
women  of  her  class  must  talk  them  to  hold  their  own; 
she  supported  the  Church ;  and  she  was  elegantly  char- 
itable, in  that  popular  sense  which  means  that  you  sub- 
scribe to  your  friends'  charities  without  setting  up  any 
of  your  own.  She  was  rich  also — already  in  possession  of 
a  considerable  fortune,  inherited  from  her  mother,  and 
prospective  heiress  of  at  least  as  much  again  from  her 
father,  old  Sir  Richard  Lyster,  whose  house  in  Somerset- 
shire she  managed  to  perfection.  In  the  season  she 
stayed  with  various  friends,  or  with  Lady  Tranmore, 
Sir  Richard  being  now  infirm,  and  preferring  the  country. 
There  was  a  younger  sister,  who  was  known  to  have  mar- 
ried imprudently,  and  against  her  father's  wishes,  some 
five  or  six  years  before  this.  Catharine  was  poor,  the 
wife  of  a  clergyman  with  young  children.  Lady  Tran- 
more sometimes  wondered  whether  Mary  was  quite  as 
good  to  her  as  she  might  be.  She  herself  sent  Catharine 
various  presents  in  the  course  of  the  year  for  the 
children. 

— Yes,  it  was  certainly  surprising  that  Mary  had  not 
married.  Lady  Tranmore's  thoughts  were  running  on 
this  tack  when  of  a  sudden  her  eyes  were  caught  by  the 
placard  of  one  of  the  evening  papers. 

"Interview  with  Mr.  Cliffe.  Peace  assured."  So  ran 
one  of  the  lines. 

"Geoffrey  Cliffe  home  again!"  Lady  Tranmore's 
tone   betrayed   a  shade   of   contemptuous   amusement. 

^6 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

"  We  shall  have  to  get  on  without  our  daily  telegram. 
Poor  London!" 

If  at  that  moment  it  had  occurred  to  her  to  look  at  her 
companion,  she  would  have  seen  a  quick  reddening  of 
Mary's  cheeks. 

"He  has  had  a  great  success,  though,  with  his  tele- 
grams!" replied  Miss  Lyster.  "I  should  have  thought 
one  couldn't  deny  that." 

"Success!  Only  with  the  people  who  don't  matter," 
said  Lady  Tranmore,  wiih  a  shrug.  "Of  what  impor- 
tance is  it  to  anybody  that  Geoffrey  Cliffe  should  tele- 
graph his  doings  and  his  opinions  every  morning  to  the 
EngHsh  public  ?" 

We  were  in  the  midst  of  a  disagreement  with  America. 
A  whirlwind  was  unloosed,  and  as  it  happened  Geoffrey 
Cliffe  was  riding  it.  For  that  gentleman  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  the  designs  which  were  occupying  his  mind 
when  he  had  first  made  Kitty's  acquaintance  in  the 
Grosvilles'  country-house.  He  had  desired  an  appoint- 
ment in  Egypt;  but  it  had  not  been  given  him,  and  after 
some  angry  restlessness  at  home,  he  had  once  more  taken 
up  a  pilgrim's  staff  and  departed  on  fresh  travels,  bound 
this  time  for  the  Pamirs  and  Thibet.  After  nearly  three 
years,  during  which  he  had  never  ceased,  through  the 
newspapers  and  periodicals,  to  keep  his  opinions  and  his 
personality  before  the  public,  he  had  been  heard  of  in 
China,  and  as  returning  home  by  America.  He  arrived 
at  San  Francisco  just  as  the  dispute  had  broken  out,  was 
at  once  captured  by  an  English  paper,  and  sent  to  New 
York,  with  carte  blanche.  He  had  risen  with  alacrity  to 
the  situation.  Thenceforward  for  some  three  weeks, 
England  found  a  marvellous  series  of  large-print  tele- 

157 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

grams,  signed  "  Geoffrey  Cliffe,"  awaiting  her  each  morn- 
ing on  her  breakfast-table. 

'"The  President  and  I  met  this  morning' — 'The 
President  considers,  and  I  agree  with  him' — 'I  told 
the  President' — etc. — 'The  President  this  morning 
signed  and  sealed  a  memorable  despatch.  He  said  to 
me  afterwards  '  " — etc. 

Two  diverse  effects  seemed  to  have  been  produced  by 
these  proceedings.  A  certain  section  of  Radical  opinion, 
which  likes  to  see  affairs  manned  sans  ccrcmonie,  and 
does  not  understand  what  the  world  wants  with  diplo- 
matists when  journalists  are  to  be  had,  applauded;  the 
old-fashioned  laughed. 

It  was  said  that  Cliffe  was  going  into  the  House 
immediately;  the  young  bloods  of  the  party  in  power 
enjoyed  the  prospect,  and  had  already  stored  up  the  ego 
et  Rex  mens  details  of  his  correspondence  for  future  use. 

"How  could  a  man  make  such  a  fool  of  himself!" 
continued  Lady  Tranmore,  the  malice  in  her  voice  ex- 
pressing not  only  the  old  aristocratic  dislike  of  the  press, 
but  also  the  jealousy  natural  to  the  mother  of  an  official 
son. 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Mary,  after  a  pause.  "I 
don't  quite  agree  with  you,  Cousin  Elizabeth — indeed,  I 
know  there  are  many  people  who  think  that  he  has  cer- 
tainly done  good." 

Lady  Tranmore  turned  in  astonishment.  She  had 
expected  Mary's  assent  to  her  original  remark  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Mary's  old  flirtation  with  Geoffrey  Cliffe,  and 
the  long  breach  between  them  which  had  followed  it, 
were  things  well  known  to  her.  They  had  coincided, 
moreover,  with  her  own  dropping  of  the  man  whom  for 

158 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

various  reasons  she  had  come  to  regard  as  unscrupulous 
and  unsafe. 

"Good!"  she  echoed — "good? — with  that  boasting, 
and  that  fanfaronnade.     Polly!" 

But  Miss  Lyster  held  her  ground. 

"We  must  allow  everybody  their  own  ways  of  doing 
things,  mustn't  we  ?  I  am  quite  sure  he  has  meant  well 
—all  through." 

Lady  Tranmore  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Lord  Par- 
ham  told  me  he  had  had  the  most  grotesque  letters  from 
him! — and  meant  henceforward  to  put  them  in  the  fire." 

"Very  foolish  of  Lord  Parham,"  said  Mary,  promptly. 
"I  should  have  thought  that  a  Prime  Minister  would 
welcome  information — from  all  sides.  And  of  course 
Mr.  Cliffe  thinks  that  the  government  has  been  very 
badly  served." 

Lady  Tranmorc's  wonder  broke  out,  "You  don't 
mean — that — you  hear  from  him  ?" 

She  turned  and  looked  full  at  her  companion.  Mary's 
color  was  still  raised,  but  otherwise  she  betrayed  no 
embarrassment. 

"Yes,  dear  Cousin  Elizabeth.  I  have  heard  from  him 
regularly  for  the  last  six  months.  I  have  often  wished  to 
tell  you,  but  I  was  afraid  you  might  misunderstand  me, 
and — my  courage  failed  me!"  The  speaker,  smiling,  laid 
her  hand  on  Lady  Tranmore's.  "  The  fact  is,  he  wrote  to 
me  last  autumn  from  Japan.  You  remember  that  poor 
cousin  of  mine  who  died  at  Tokio  ?  Mr.  Cliffe  had  seen 
something  of  him,  and  he  very  kindly  wrote  both  to  his 
mother  and  me  afterwards.     Then — " 

"You  didn't  forgive  him!"  cried  Lady  Tranmore. 

Mary  laughed. 

IS9 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

"Was  there  anything  to  forgive?  We  were  both 
young  and  fooHsh.  Anyway,  he  interests  me — and  his 
letters  are  splendid." 

"Did  you  ever  tell  William  you  were  corresponding 
with  him?" 

"No,  indeed!  But  I  want  very  mueh  to  make  them 
understand  eaeh  other  better.  Why  shouldn't  the 
government  make  use  of  him?  He  doesn't  wish  at  all 
to  be  thrown  into  the  arms  of  the  other  side.  But  they 
treat  him  so  badly — " 

"My  dear  Mary!  are  we  governed  by  the  proper  peo- 
ple, or  are  we  not?" 

"It  is  no  good  ignoring  the  press,"  said  Mary,  holding 
herself  gracefully  erect,  "And  the  Bishop  quite  agrees 
with  me." 

Lady  Tranmore  sank  back  in  her  seat. 

"You  discussed  it  with  the  Bishop?"  It  was  now 
some  time  since  Mary  had  last  brought  the  family  Bishop 
— her  cousin,  and  Lady  Tranmore's — to  bear  upon  an 
argument  between  them.  But  Elizabeth  knew  that 
his  appearance  in  the  conversation  invariably  meant  a 
fait  accompli  of  some  sort. 

"I  read  him  some  of  Mr.  Cliffe's  letters,"  said  Mary, 
modestly.     "He  thought  them  most  remarkable." 

" Even  when  he  mocks  at  missionaries?" 

"Oh!  but  he  doesn't  mock  at  them  any  more.  He 
has  learned  wisdom — I  assure  you  he  has!" 

Lady  Tranmore's  patience  almost  departed,  Mary's 
look  was  so  penetrated  with  indulgence  for  the  prejudices 
of  a  dear  but  unreasonable  relation.  But  she  managed 
to  preserve  it. 

"And  you  knew  he  was  coming  home?" 
i6o 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Oh  yes!"  said  Mary.  "I  meant  to  have  told  you  at 
dinner.  Biit  something  put  it  out  of  my  head — Kitty, 
of  course!  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  were  at  the  embassy 
to-night." 

"Polly!  tell  me — "  —  Lady  Tranmore  gripped  Miss 
Lyster's  hand  with  some  force — "  are  you  going  to  marry 
him?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  was  the  smiling  reply.  "  Don't 
you  think  I'm  old  enough  by  now  to  have  a  man  friend  ?" 

"And  you  expect  me  to  be  civil  to  him!" 

"Well,  dear  Cousin  Elizabeth — you  know — you  never 
did  break  with  him,  quite." 

Lady  Tranmore,  in  her  bewilderment,  reflected  that 
she  had  certainly  meant  to  complete  the  process  when- 
ever she  and  Mr.  Cliffe  should  meet  again.  Aloud  she 
could  only  say,  rather  stiffly: 

"I  can't  forget  that  Wilham  disapproves  of  him 
strongly." 

"Oh  no — excuse  me — I  don't  think  he  does!"  said 
Mary,  quickly.  "  He  said  to  me,  the  other  day,  ihit  he 
should  be  very  glad  to  pick  his  brains  when  he  came 
home.  And  then  he  laughed  and  said  he  was  a  '  deuced 
clever  fellow' — excuse  the  adjective — and  it  was  a  great 
thing  to  be  '  as  free  as  that  chap  was ' — '  without  all  sorts 
of  boring  colleagues  and  responsibilities.'  Wasn't  it 
like  William?" 

Lady  Tranmore  sighed. 

"William  shouldn't  say  those  things." 

"  Of  course,  dear,  he  was  only  in  fun.  But  I'll  lay  you 
a  small  wager.  Cousin  Elizabeth,  that  Kitty  will  ask  Mr 
Cliffe  to  lunch  as  soon  as  she  knows  he  is  in  town." 

Lady  Tranmore  turned  away. 

i6i 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"I  dare  say.  No  one  can  answer  for  what  Kitty  will 
do.  But  Geoffrey  Cliffe  has  said  scandalous  things  of 
William." 

"He  won't  say  them  again,"  said  Mary,  soothingly. 
"Besides,  William  never  minds  being  abused  a  bit — does 
he?" 

"  He  should  mind,"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  drawing  her- 
self up.  "In  my  young  days,  our  enemies  were  our 
enemies  and  our  friends  our  friends.  Nowadays  noth- 
ing seems  to  matter.  You  may  call  a  man  a  scoundrel 
one  day  and  ask  him  to  dinner  the  next.  We  seem  to 
use  words  in  a  new  sense — and  I  confess  I  don't  like  the 
change.  Well,  Mary,  I  sha'n't,  of  course,  be  rude  to  any 
friend  of  yours.  But  don't  expect  me  to  be  effusive. 
And  please  remember  that  my  acquaintance  with  Geof- 
frey Cliffe  is  older  than  yours." 

Mary  made  a  caressing  reply,  and  gave  her  mind  for 
the  rest  of  the  drive  to  the  smoothing  of  Lady  Tran- 
more's  ruffled  plumes.  But  it  was  not  easy.  As  that 
lady  made  her  way  up  the  crowded  staircase  of  the 
French  Embassy,  her  fine  face  was  still  absent  and  a  little 
stern. 

Mary  could  only  reflect  that  she  had  at  least  got 
through  a  first  explanation  which  was  bound  to  be  made. 
Then  for  a  few  minutes  her  mind  surrendered  itself 
wholly  to  the  question,  "Will  he  be  here?" 

The  rooms  of  the  French  Embassy  were  already 
crowded.  An  ambassador,  short,  stout,  and  somewhat 
morose,  his  plain  features  and  snub  nose  emerging  with 
difficulty  from  his  thick,  fair  hair,  superabundant  beard, 
and  mustache  —  with  an  elegant  and  smiling  ambas- 

162 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

sadress,  personifying  amid  the  English  crowd  that  Paris 
from  which  through  every  fibre  she  felt  herself  a  pining 
exile — received  the  guests.  The  scene  was  ablaze  with 
uniforms,  for  the  Speaker  had  been  giving  a  dinner,  and 
Royalty  was  expected.  But,  as  Lady  Tranmore  per- 
ceived at  once,  very  few  members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons were  present.  A  hot  debate  on  some  detail  of  the 
naval  estimates  had  been  sprung  on  ministers,  and  the 
whips  on  each  side  had  been  peremptorily  keeping  their 
forces  in  hand. 

"  I  don't  see  either  William  or  Kitty,"  said  Mary,  after 
a  careful  scrutiny  not,  in  truth,  directed  to  the  discovery 
of  the  Ashes. 

"  No.  I  suppose  William  was  kept,  and  Kitty  did  not 
care  to  come  alone." 

Mary  said  nothing.  But  she  was  well  aware  that 
Kitty  was  never  restrained  from  going  into  society  by 
the  mere  absence  of  her  husband.  Meanwhile  Lady 
Tranmore  was  lost  in  secret  anxieties  as  to  what  might 
have  happened  in  Hill  Street.  Had  there  been  a  quar- 
rel? Something  certainly  had  gone  wrong,  or  Kitty 
would  be  here. 

"Lady  Kitty  not  arrived?"  said  a  voice,  like  a  ma- 
caw's, beside  her. 

Elizabeth  turned  and  shook  hands  with  Lady  Parham. 
That  extraordinary  woman,  followed  everywhere  by  the 
attentive  observation  of  the  crowd,  had  never  asserted 
herself  more  sharply  in  dress,  manner,  and  coiffure  than 
on  this  particular  evening — so  it  seemed,  at  least,  to  Lady 
Tranmore.  Her  ample  figure  was  robed  in  the  white 
satin  of  a  bride,  her  wrinkled  neck  disappeared  under  a 
weight  of  jewels,  and  her  bright  chestnut  wig,  to  which 

163 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

the  diamond  tiara  was  fastened,  positively  attacked  the 
spectator,  so  patent  was  it  and  unashamed.  Unashamed, 
too,  were  the  bold,  tyrannous  eyes,  the  rouge-spots  on 
either  cheek,  the  strength  of  the  jaw,  the  close-shut 
ability  of  the  mouth.  Elizabeth  Tranmore  looked  at  her 
with  a  secret  passion  of  dislike.  Her  English  pride  of 
race,  no  less  than  the  prejudices  of  her  taste  and  training, 
could  hardly  endure  the  fact  that,  for  William's  sake, 
she  must  make  herself  agreeable  to  Lady  Parham. 

Agreeable,  however,  she  tried  to  be.  Kitty  had 
seemed  to  her  tired  in  the  afternoon,  and  had,  no  doubt, 
gone  to  bed — so  she  averred. 

Lady  Parham  laughed. 

"  Well,  she  mustn't  be  tired  the  night  of  my  party  next 
week  —  or  the  skies  will  fall.  I  never  took  so  much 
trouble  before  about  anything  in  my  life." 

"No,  she  must  take  care,"  said  Lady  Tranmore. 
"Unfortunately,  she  is  not  strong,  and  she  does  too 
much." 

Lady  Parham  threw  her  a  sharp  look. 

"  Not  strong  ?  I  should  have  thought  Lady  Kitty  was 
made  on  wires.  Well,  if  she  fails  me,  I  shall  go  to  bed — 
with  small-pox.  There  will  be  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
The  Princess  has  actually  put  off  another  engagement  to 
come — she  has  heard  so  much  of  Lady  Kitty's  reciting. 
But  you'll  help  me  through,  won't  you?" 

And  the  wrinkled  face  and  harsh  lips  fell  into  a  con- 
tortion meant  for  a  confidential  smile;  while  through  it 
all  the  eyes,  wholly  independent,  studied  the  face  beside 
her — closely,  suspiciously — until  the  owner  of  it  in  her 
discomfort  could  almost  have  repeated  aloud  the  words 
that  were  ringing  in  her  mind — "I  shall  not  go  to  Lady 

164 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Parham's!     My  note  will   reach  her  on   the   stroke  of 
eight." 

"Certainly  —  I  will  keep  an  eye  on  her!"  she  said, 
lightly.     "But  you  know — since  her  illness — " 

"Oh  no!"  said  Lady  Parham,  impatiently,  "she  is 
very  well — very  well  indeed.  I  never  saw  her  look  so 
radiant.  By-the-way,  did  you  hear  your  son's  speech 
the  other  night?  I  did  not  see  you  in  the  gallery.  A 
great  pity  if  you  missed  it.     It  was  admirable." 

Lady  Tranmore  replied  regretfully  that  she  had  not 
been  there,  and  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  have  a 
word  with  him  about  it  since. 

"Oh,  he  knows  he  did  well,"  said  Lady  Parham, 
carelessly.  "They  all  do.  Lord  Parham  was  delighted. 
He  could  do  nothing  but  talk  about  it  at  dinner.  He 
says  they  were  in  a  very  tight  place,  and  Mr.  Ashe  got 
them  out." 

Lady  Tranmore  expressed  her  gratification  with  all 
the  dignity  she  could  command,  conscious  meanwhile 
that  her  companion  was  not  listening  to  a  word,  absorbed 
as  she  was  in  a  hawklike  examination  of  the  room 
through  a  pair  of  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses. 

Suddenly  the  eye-glasses  fell  with  a  rattle. 

"Good  Heavens!"  cried  Lady  Parham.  "Do  you  see 
who  that  is  talking  to  Mr.  Loraine?" 

Lady  Tranmore  looked,  and  at  once  perceived  Geoffrey 
Cliffe  in  close  conversation  with  the  leader  of  the  Oppo- 
sition.    The  lady  beside  her  gave  an  angry  laugh. 

"If  Mr.  Cliffe  thinks  he  has  done  himself  any  good 
by  these  ridiculous  telegrams  of  his,  he  will  find  him- 
self mistaken!  People  are  perfectly  furious  about 
them." 

165 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Naturally,"  said  Lady  Tranmore.  "Only  that  it  is 
a  pity  to  take  him  seriously." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  has  his  following;  unfortu- 
nately, some  of  our  own  men  are  inclined  to  think  that 
Parham  should  conciliate  him.  Ignore  him,  Lsay.  Be- 
have as  though  he  didn't  exist.  Ah!  by-the-way  " — the 
speaker  raised  herself  on  tiptoe,  and  said,  in  an  auda- 
cious undertone — "is  it  true  that  he  may  possibly  marry 
your  cousin,  Miss  Lyster?" 

Lady  Tranmore  kept  a  smiling  composure.  "  Is  it 
true  that  Lord  Parham  may  possibly  give  him  an  ap- 
pointment?" 

Lady  Parham  turned  away  in  annoyance.  "Is  that 
one  of  the  inventions  going  about?"  » 

"There  are  so  many,"  said  Lady  Tranmore. 
At  that  moment,  however,  to  her  infinite  relief,  her 
companion  abruptly  deserted  her.  She  was  free  to  ob- 
serve the  two  distant  figures  in  conversation — Geoffrey 
Cliffe  and  Mr.  Loraine,  the  latter  a  man  now  verging  on 
old  age,  white-haired  and  wrinkled,  but  breathing  still 
through  every  feature  and  every  movement,  the  scarcely 
diminished  energy  of  his  magnificent  prime.  He  stood 
with  bent  head,  listening  attentively,  but,  as  Lady  Tran- 
more thought,  coldly,  to  the  arguments  that  Cliffe  was 
pouring  out  upon  him.  Once  he  looked  up  in  a  sudden 
recoil,  and  there  was  a  flash  from  an  eye  famous  for  its 
power  of  majestic  or  passionate  rebuke.  Cliffe,  how- 
ever, took  no  notice,  and  talked  on,  Loraine  still  listen- 
ing. 

"Look  at  them!"  said  Lady  Parham,  venomously,  in 
the  ear  of  one  of  her  intimates.  "  We  shall  have  all  this 
out  in  the  House  to-morrow.  The  Opposition  mean  to 

i66 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

play  that  man  for  all  he's  worth.  Mr.  Loraine,  too — • 
with  his  puritanical  ways!  I  know  what  he  thinks  of 
Cliffe.  He  wouldn't  touch  him  in  private.  But  in  public 
— you'll  see — he'll  swallow  him  whole — just  to  annoy 
Parham.     There's  your  politician." 

And  stiff  with  the  angry  virtue  of  the  "ins,"  denounc- 
ing the  faction  of  the  "outs,"  Lady  Parham  passed  on. 

Elizabeth  Tranmore  meanwhile  turned  to  look  for 
Mary  Lyster.  She  found  her  close  behind,  engaged  in  a 
perfunctory  conversation,  which  evidently  left  her  quite 
free  to  follow  things  more  exciting.  She,  too,  was  watch- 
ing ;  and  presently  it  seemed  to  Lady  Tranmore  that  her 
eyes  met  with  those  of  Cliffe.  Cliffe  paused;  abruptly 
lost  the  thread  of  his  conversation  with  Mr.  Loraine,  and 
began  to  make  his  way  through  the  crowded  room. 
Lady  Tranmore  watched  his  progress  with  some  atten- 
tion. It  was  the  progress,  clearly,  of  a  man  much  in  the 
eye  and  mouth  of  the  public.  Whether  the  atmosphere 
surrounding  him  in  these  rooms  was  more  hostile  or  more 
favorable,  Lady  Tranmore  could  not  be  quite  sure. 
Certainly  the  women  smiled  upon  him;  and  his  strange 
face,  thinner,  browner,  more  weather-beaten  and  life- 
beaten  than  ever,  under  its  crest  of  grizzling  hair,  had  the 
old  arrogant  and  picturesque  power,  but,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  with  something  added — something  subtler,  was  it, 
more  romantic  than  of  yore?  which  arrested  the  spec- 
tator. Had  he  really  been  in  love  with  that  French 
woman?  Lady  Tranmore  had  heard  it  rumored  that 
she  was  dead. 

It  was  not  towards  Mary  Lyster,  primarily,  that  he 
was  moving,  Elizabeth  soon  discovered ;  it  was  towards 
herself.     She  braced  herself  for  the  encounter. 

167 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

The  greeting  was  soon  over.  After  she  herself  had 
said  the  appropriate  things,  Lady  Tranmore  had  time  to 
notice  that  Mary  Lyster,  whose  turn  came  next,  did  not 
attempt  to  say  them.  She  looked,  indeed,  unusually 
handsome  and  animated;  Lady  Tranmore  was  certain 
that  Cliffe  had  noticed  as  much,  at  his  first  sight  of  her. 
But  the  remarks  she  omitted  showed  how  minute  and 
recent  was  their  knowledge  of  each  other's  movements. 
Cliffe  himself  gave  a  first  impression  of  high  spirits.  Jle 
declared  that  London  was  more  agreeable  than  he  had 
ever  known  it,  and  that  after  his  three  years'  absence 
nobody  looked  a  day  older.  Then  he  inquired  after 
Ashe. 

Lady  Tranmore  replied  that  William  was  well,  but 
hard-worked;  she  hoped  to  persuade  him  to  get  a  few 
days  abroad  at  Whitsuntide.  Her  manner  was  quiet, 
without  a  trace  of  either  discourtesy  or  effusion.  Cliffe 
began  to  twist  his  mustache,  a  sign  she  knew  well.  It 
meant  that  he  was  in  truth  both  irritable  and  nervous. 

"You  think  they'll  last  till  Whitsuntide?" 

"The  government?"  she  said,  smiling.  "Certainly — 
and  beyond." 

"I  give  them  three  weeks,"  said  Cliffe,  twisting  anew, 
with  a  vigor  that  gave  her  a  positive  physical  sympathy 
with  the  tortured  mustache.  ' '  There  will  be  some  papers 
out  to-morrow  that  will  be  a  bomb-shell." 

"About  America?  Oh,  they  have  been  blown  up  so 
often!  You,  for  instance,  have  been  doing  your  best — 
for  months." 

His  perfunctory  laugh  answered  the  mockery  of  her 
charming  eyes. 

"  Well — I  wish  I  could  make  William  hear  reason." 
i68 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Lady  Traninore  held  herself  stiffly.  The  Christian 
name  seemed  to  her  an  offence.  It  was  true  that  in  old 
days  he  and  Cliffe  had  been  on  those  terms.  Now — it 
was  a  piece  of  bad  taste. 

"Probably  what  is  reason  to  you  is  folly  to  him,"  she 
said,  dryly. 

"No,  no! — ^he  knows,"  said  Cliffe,  with  impatience. 
"The  others  don't.  Parham  is  more  impossible — more 
crassly,  grossly  ignorant!"  He  lifted  hands  and  eyes  in 
protest.  "But  Ashe,  of  course,  is  another  matter  alto- 
gether." 

"Well,  go  and  see  him — go  and  talk  to  him!"  said 
Lady  Tranmore,  still  mocking.  "There  are  no  lions  in 
the  way." 

"  None,"  said  Cliffe.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Lady  Kitty 
has  asked  me  to  luncheon.  But  does  one  find  Ashe  him- 
self in  the  middle  of  the  day  ?" 

At  the  mention  of  her  daughter-in-law  Elizabeth  made 
an  involuntary  movement.  Mary,  standing  beside  her, 
turned  towards  her  and  smiled. 

"Not  often."  The  tone  was  cold.  "But  you  could 
always  find  him  at  the  House."  And  Lady  Tranmore 
moved  away. 

"Is  there  a  quiet  corner  anywhere?"  said  Cliffe  to 
Mary.     "I  have  such  heaps  to  tell  you." 

So  while  some  Polish  gentleman  in  the  main  drawing- 
room,  whose  name  ended  in  ski,  challenged  his  violin  to 
the  impossible,  Cliffe  and  Mary  retired  from  observation 
into  a  small  room  thrown  open  with  the  rest  of  the  suite, 
which  was  in  truth  the  morning-room  of  the  ambassa- 
dress. 

As  soon  as  they  found  themselves  alone,  there  was 

169 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

a  pause  in  their  conversation ;  each  involuntarily  looked 
at  the  other.  Mary  certainly  recognized  that  these  years 
of  absence  had  wrought  a  noticeable  change  in  the  man 
before  her.  He  had  aged.  Hard  living  and  hard  travel- 
ling had  left  their  marks.  But,  like  Lady  Tranmore, 
she  also  perceived  another  difference.  The  eyes  bent 
upon  her  were  indeed,  as  before,  the  eyes  of  a  man 
self-centred,  self-absorbed.  There  was  no  chivalrous 
softness  in  them,  no  consideration.  The  man  who  owned 
them  used  them  entirely  for  his  own  purposes;  they 
betrayed  none  of  that  changing  instinctive  relation  tow- 
ards the  human  being — any  human  being — within  their 
range,  which  makes  the  charm  of  so  many  faces.  But 
they  were  sadder,  more  sombre,  more  restless;  they 
thrilled  her  more  than  they  had  already  thrilled  her  once, 
in  the  first  moment  of  her  youth. 

What  was  he  going  to  say  ?  From  the  moment  of  his 
first  letter  to  her  from  Japan,  Mary  had  perfectly  under- 
stood that  he  had  some  fresh  purpose  in  his  mind.  She 
was  not  anxious,  however,  to  precipitate  the  moment  of 
explanation.  She  was  no  longer  the  young  girl  whose 
equilibrium  is  upset  by  the  mere  approach  of  the  man 
who  interests  her.  Moreover,  there  was  a  past  between 
herself  and  Cliff e,  the  memory  of  which  might  indeed 
point  her  to  caution.  Did  he  now,  after  all,  want  to 
marry  her — because  she  was  rich,  and  he  was  compara- 
tively poor,  and  could  only  secure  an  English  career  at 
the  cost  of  a  well-stored  wife?  Well,  all  that  should  be 
thought  over;  by  herself  no  less  than  by  him.  Mean- 
while her  vanity  glowed  within  her,  as  she  thus  held  him 
there,  alone,  to  the  discomfiture  of  other  women  more 
beautiful  and  more  highly  placed  than  herself;    as  she 

170 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

remembered  his  letters  in  her  desk  at  home;  and  the 
secrets  she  imagined  him  to  have  told  her.  Then  again 
she  felt  a  rush  of  sudden  disquiet,  caused  by  this  new 
aspect — wavering  and  remote — as  though  some  hidden 
grief  emerged  and  vanished.  He  had  the  haggard  air  of 
a  man  who  scarcely  sleeps.  All  that  she  had  ever  heard 
of  the  French  affair  rushed  through  her  mind,  stirring 
there  an  angry  curiosity. 

These  impressions  took,  however,  but  a  few  minutes, 
while  they  exchanged  some  conventionalities.  Then 
Cliffe  said,  scrutinizing  the  face  and  form  beside  him 
with  that  intentness  which,  from  him,  was  more  gen- 
erally taken  as  compliment  than  offence: 

"Will  you  excuse  the  remark?  There  are  no  women 
who  keep  their  first  freshness  like  Englishwomen." 

"Thank  you.  If  we  feel  fresh,  I  suppose  we  look  it. 
As  for  you,  you  clearly  want  a  rest." 

"No  time  to  think  of  it,  then;  I  have  come  home  to 
fight — all  I  know;  to  make  myself  as  odious  as  possible." 

Mary  laughed. 

"  You  have  been  doing  that  so  long.  Why  not  try  the 
opposite?" 

Cliffe  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"You  think  I  have  made  a  failure  of  it?" 

"Not  at  all.  You  have  made  everybody  furiously 
uncomfortable,  and  you  see  how  civil  even  the  Radical 
papers  are  to  you." 

"Yes.  What  fools!"  said  Cliffe,  shortly.  "They'll 
soon  leave  that  off.  Just  now  I'm  a  stick  to  beat  the 
government  with.  But  you  don't  believe  I  shall  carry 
my  point?" 

The  point  concerned  a  particular  detail  in  a  pending 
"  171 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

negotiation  with  the  United  States.  Cliffe  had  been  de- 
nouncing the  government  for  what  he  conceived  to  be 
their  coming  retreat  before  American  demands.  Amer- 
ica, according  to  him,  had  been  playing  the  bully ;  and 
English  interests  were  being  betrayed. 

Mary  considered. 

"I  think  you  will  have  to  change  your  tactics." 

"Dictate  them,  then." 

He  bent  forward,  with  that  sudden  change  of  manner, 
that  courteous  sweetness  of  tone  and  gesture,  which 
few  women  could  resist.  Mary's  heart,  seasoned  though 
it  were,  felt  a  charming  flutter.  She  talked,  and  she 
talked  well.  She  had  no  independence  of  mind,  and 
very  little  real  knowledge;  but  she  had  an  excellent 
reporter's  ability ;  she  knew  what  to  remember,  and  how 
to  tell  it.  Cliffe  listened  to  her  attentively,  acknowl- 
edging to  himself  the  while  that  she  had  certainly  gained. 
She  was  a  far  more  definite  personality  than  she  had 
been  when  he  last  knew  her;  and  her  self-possession, 
her  trained  manner,  rested  him.  Thank  Heaven,  she  was 
not  a  clever  woman — how  he  detested  the  breed!  But 
she  was  a  useful  one.  And  the  smiling  commonplace 
into  which  she  fell  so  often  was  positively  welcome  to 
him.  He  had  known  what  it  was  to  court  a  woman 
who  was  more  than  his  equal  both  in  mind  and  passion ; 
and  it  had  left  him  bitter  and  broken. 

"Well,  all  this  is  most  illuminating,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  owe  you  immense  thanks."  And  he  put  out  a  pair  of 
hands,  thin,  brown,  and  weather-stained  as  his  face,  and 
pressed  one  of  hers.  "We're  very  old  friends,  aren't 
we?" 

"Are  we?"  said  Mary,  drawing  back. 
172 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"So  far  as  any  one  can  be  the  friend  of  a  chap  like 
me,"  he  said,  hastily.  "Tell  me,  are  you  with  Lady 
Tranmore?" 

"No.  I  go  to  her  in  a  few  days — till  I  leave  Lon- 
don." 

"Don't  go  away,"  he  said,  suddenly  and  insistently. 
"Don't  go  away." 

Mary  could  not  help  a  slight  wavering  in  the  eyes 
that  perforce  met  his.  Then  he  said,  abruptly,  as  she 
rose: 

"By-the-way,  they  tell  me  Ashe  is  a  great  man." 

She  caught  the  note  of  incredulous  contempt  in  his 
voice  and  laughed. 

"They  say  he'll  be  in  the  cabinet  directly." 

"And  Lady  Kitty,  I  understand,  is  a  scandal  to  gods 
and  men,  and  the  most  fashionable  person  in  town?" 

"  Oh,  not  now,"  said  Mary.     "  That  was  last  year." 

"You  mean  people  are  tired  of  her?" 

"Well,  after  a  time,  you  know,  a  naughty  child — " 

"Becomes  a  bore.  Is  she  a  bore?  I  doubt;  I  very 
much  doubt." 

"Go  and  see,"  said  Mary.  "When  do  you  lunch 
there?" 

"I  think  to-morrow.     Shall  I  find  you?" 

"Oh  no.     I  am  not  at  all  intimate  with  Lady  Kitty." 

Cliffe's  slight  smile,  as  he  followed  her  into  the  large 
drawing-room,  died  under  his  mustache.  He  divined  at 
once  the  relation  between  the  two,  or  thought  he  did. 

As  for  Mary,  she  caught  her  last  sight  of  ClifEe,  stand- 
ing bareheaded  on  the  steps  of  the  embassy,  his  lean 
distinction,  his  ugly  good  looks  marking  him  out  from 
the  men  around  him.     Then,  as  they  drove  away  she  was 

173 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

glad  that  the  darkness  hid  her  from  Lady  Tranmore. 
For  suddenly  she  could  not  smile.  She  was  filled  with 
the  perception  that  if  Geoffrey  Cliffe  did  not  now  ask  her 
to  marry  him,  life  would  utterly  lose  its  savor,  its  care- 
fully cherished  and  augmented  savor,  and  youth  would 
abandon  her.  At  the  same  time  she  realized  that  she 
would  have  to  make  a  fight  of  it,  with  every  weapon 
she  could  muster. 


IX 


WASN'T  I  expected?"  said  Darrell,  with  a  chilly 
smile. 

"Oh  yes,  sir — yes,  sir!"  said  the  Ashes'  butler,  as  he 
looked  distractedly  round  the  drawing-room.  "  I  be- 
lieve her  ladyship  will  be  in  directly.  Will  you  kindly 
take  a  seat?" 

The  man's  air  of  resignation  convinced  Darrell  that 
Lady  Kitty  had  probably  gone  out  without  any  orders 
to  her  servants,  and  had  now  forgotten  all  about  her 
luncheon  -  party  —  a  state  of  things  to  which  the  Hill 
Street  household  was,  no  doubt,  well  accustomed. 

"I  shall  claim  some  lunch,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
"whatever  happens.  These  young  people  want  keeping 
in  their  place.     Ah!" 

For  he  had  observed,  placed  on  a  small  easel,  the 
print  of  Madame  de  Longueville  in  costume,  and  he  put 
up  his  eye-glass  to  look  at  it.  He  guessed  at  once  that 
its  appearance  there  was  connected  with  the  fancy  ball 
which  was  now  filling  London  with  its  fame,  and  he 
examined  it  with  some  closeness.  "Lady  Kitty  will 
make  a  stir  in  it — no  doubt  of  that!"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  turned  away.  "  She  has  the  keenest  flair  of  them 
all  for  what  produces  an  effect.  None  of  the  others  can 
touch  her — Mrs.  Alcot — none  of  them!" 

He  was  thinking  of  the  other  members  of  a  certain 
175 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

group,  at  that  time  well  known  in  London  society — a 
group  characterized  chiefly  by  the  beauty,  extrava- 
gance, and  audacity  of  the  women  belonging  to  it.  It 
was  by  no  means  a  group  of  mere  fashionables.  It  con- 
tained a  large  amount  of  ability  and  accomplishment; 
some  men  of  aristocratic  family,  who  were  also  men  of 
high  character,  with  great  futures  before  them ;  some  per- 
sons from  the  literary  or  artistic  world,  who  possessed, 
besides  their  literary  or  artistic  gifts,  a  certain  art  of 
agreeable  living,  and  some  few  others — especially  young 
girls — admitted  generally  for  some  peculiar  quality  of 
beauty  or  manner  outside  the  ordinary  canons.  Money 
was  really  presupposed  by  the  group  as  a  group.  The 
life  they  belonged  to  was  a  life  of  the  rich,  the  houses 
they  met  in  were  rich  houses.  But  money  as  such  had  no 
power  whatever  to  buy  admission  to  their  ranks ;  and  the 
members  of  the  group  were  at  least  as  impatient  of  the 
claims  of  mere  wealth  as  they  were  of  those  of  mere 
virtue. 

On  the  whole  the  group  was  an  element  of  ferment 
and  growth  in  the  society  that  had  produced  it.  Its  im- 
patience of  convention  and  restraint,  the  exaltation  of 
intellectual  or  artistic  power  which  prevailed  in  it,  and 
even  the  angry  opposition  excited  by  its  pretensions  and 
its  exclusiveness,  were  all,  perhaps,  rather  profitable  than 
harmful  at  that  moment  of  our  social  history.  Old 
customs  were  much  shaken;  the  new  were  shaping 
themselves,  and  this  daring  coterie  of  young  and  brilliant 
people,  living  in  one  another's  houses,  calling  one  another 
by  their  Christian  names,  setting  a  number  of  social  rules 
at  defiance,  discussing  books,  making  the  fame  of  artists, 
and,  now  and  then,  influencing  politics,  were  certainly 

176 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

helping  to  bring  the  new  world  to  birth.  Their  foes 
called  them  "  The  Archangels,"  and  they  themselves  had 
accepted  the  name  with  complacency. 

Kitty,  of  course,  was  an  Archangel,  so  was  Mrs.  Alcot. 
Cliffe  had  belonged  to  them  before  his  travels  began. 
Louis  Harman  was  more  or  less  of  their  tribe,  and  Lady 
Tranmore,  though  not  herself  an  Archangel,  entertained 
the  set  in  London  and  in  the  country.  Like  various 
older  women  connected  with  the  group,  she  was  not  of 
them,  but  she  "harbored"  them. 

Darrell  was  well  aware  that  he  did  not  belong  to 
them,  though  personally  he  was  acquainted  with  almost 
all  the  members  of  the  group.  He  was  not  completely 
indifferent  to  his  exclusion ;  and  this  fact  annoyed  him 
more  than  the  exclusion  itself. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  his  inspection  of  the  print 
when  the  door  again  opened  and  Geoffrey  Cliffe  entered. 
Darrell  had  not  yet  seen  him  since  his  return  and  since 
his  attack  on  the  government  had  made  him  the  hero  of 
the  hour.  Of  the  newspaper  success  Darrell  was  no  less 
jealous  and  contemptuous  than  Lady  Tranmore,  though 
for  quite  other  reasons.  But  he  knew  better  than  she  the 
intellectual  quality  of  the  man,  and  his  disdain  for  the 
journalist  was  tempered  by  his  considerable  though  re- 
luctant respect  for  the  man  of  letters. 

They  greeted  each  other  coolly,  while  Cliffe,  not 
seeing  his  hostess,  looked  round  him  with  annoyance. 

"Well,  we  shall  probably  entertain  each  other,"  said 
Darrell,  as  they  sat  down.  "Lady  Kitty  often  forgets 
her  engagements." 

"Does  she?"  said  Cliffe,  coldly,  pretending  to  glance 
through  a  book  beside  him.     It  touched  his  vanity  that 

177 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

liis  hostess  was  not  present,  and  still  more  that  Darrcll 
should  suppose  him  a  person  to  be  forgotten.  Darrell, 
however,  who  had  no  mind  for  any  discomfort  that 
might  be  avoided,  made  a  few  dexterous  advances, 
Cliffe's  brow  relaxed,  and  they  were  soon  in  conversation. 

The  position  of  the  ministry  naturally  presented  itself 
as  a  topic.  Two  or  three  retirements  were  impendmg, 
the  whole  position  was  precarious.  Would  the  cabinet 
be  reconstructed  without  a  dissolution,  or  must  there 
be  an  appeal  to  the  country  ? 

Cliffe  was  passionately  in  favor  of  the  latter  course. 
The  party  fortunes  could  not  possibly  be  retrieved  with- 
out a  general  shuffling  of  the  cards,  and  an  opportunity 
for  some  wholly  fresh  combination  involving  new  blood. 

"In  any  case,"  said  Cliffe,  "I  suppose  our  friend  here 
is  sure  of  one  or  other  of  the  big  posts?" 

"William  Ashe?  Oh,  I  suppose  so,  unless  some 
intrigue  gets  in  the  way."  Darrell  dropped  his  voice. 
"Parham  doesn't,  in  truth,  hit  it  off  with  him  very  well. 
Ashe  is  too  clever,  and  Parham  doesn't  understand  his 
paradoxes." 

"Also  I  gather,"  said  Cliffe,  with  a  smile,  "that  Lady 
Parham  has  her  say?" 

Darrell  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  sounds  incredible  that  one  should  still  have  to 
reckon  with  that  kind  of  thing  at  this  time  of  day.  But 
I  dare  say  it's  true." 

"However,  I  imagine  Lady  Kitty — by-the-way,  how 
much  longer  shall  we  give  her?" — Cliffe  looked  at  his 
watch  with  a  frown — "may  be  trusted  to  take  care  of 
that." 

Darrell  merely  raised  his  eyebrows,  without  replying. 

178 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"What,  not  a  match  for  one  Lady  Parham?"  said 
CUffe,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  should  have  thought — from  my 
old  recollections  of  her— she  would  have  been  a  match 
for  twenty?" 

"Oh,  if  she  cared  to  try." 

"She  is  not  ambitious?" 

"Certainly;  but  not  always  for  the  same  thing." 

"She  is  trying  to  run  too  many  horses  abreast?" 

"Oh,  I  am  not  a  great  friend,"  said  Darrell,  smiling. 
"I  should  never  dream  of  analyzing  Lady  Kitty.  Ah!" 
— he  turned  his  head — "are  we  not  forgotten,  or  just 
remembered — which  ?" 

For  a  rapid  step  approached,  the  door  opened,  and  a 
lady  appeared  on  the  threshold.  It  was  not  Kitty,  how- 
ever. The  new-comer  advanced,  putting  up  a  pair  of 
fashionable  eye-glasses,  and  looking  at  the  two  men  in  a 
kind  of  languid  perplexity,  intended,  as  Darrell  imme- 
diately said  to  himself,  merely  to  prolong  the  moment 
and  the  effect  of  her  entry.  Mrs.  Alcot  was  very  tall, 
and  inordinately  thin.  Her  dark  head  on  its  slim  throat, 
the  poetic  lines  of  the  brow,  her  half-shut  eyes,  the  gleam 
of  her  white  teeth,  and  all  the  delicate  detail  of  her  dress, 
and,  one  might  even  say,  of  her  manner,  gave  an  impres- 
sion of  beauty,  though  she  was  not,  in  truth,  beautiful. 
But  she  had  grace  and  she  had  daring — the  two  essential 
qualities  of  an  Archangel ;  she  was  also  a  remarkable  ar- 
tist, and  no  small  critic. 

"Mr.  Cliffe,"  she  said,  with  a  start  of  what  was  evi- 
dently agreeable  surprise,  "Kitty  never  told  me.  When 
did  you  come?" 

"  I  arrived  a  few  days  ago.  Why  weren't  you  at  the 
embassy  last  night?" 

179 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  Because  I  was  much  b(;ttcr  employed.  I  have  given 
up  crushes.  But  I  would  have  come — to  meet  you. 
Ah,  Mr.  Darrell!"  she  added,  in  another  tone,  holding 
out  an  indifferent  hand.  "Where  is  Kitty?"  She 
looked  round  her. 

"Shall  we  order  lunch?"  said  Darrell,  who  had  given 
her  a  greeting  as  careless  as  her  own. 

"Kitty  is  really  too  bad;  she  is  never  less  than  an 
hour  late,"  said  Mrs.  Alcot,  seating  herself.  "Last  time 
she  dined  with  us  I  asked  her  for  seven-thirty.  She 
thought  something  very  special  must  be  happening,  and 
arrived — breathless — at  half-past  eight.  Then  she  was 
furious  with  me  because  she  was  not  the  last.  But  one 
can't  do  it  twice.  Well" — addressing  herself  to  Cliffe — 
"are  you  come  home  to  stay?" 

"That  depends,"  said  Cliffe,  "on  whether  England 
makes  itself  agreeable  to  me." 

"What  are  your  deserts?  Why  should  England  be 
agreeable  to  you?"  she  replied,  with  a  smiling  sharpness. 
"You  do  nothing  but  croak  about  England." 

Thus  challenged,  Cliffe  sat  down  beside  her  and  they 
fell  into  a  bantering  conversation.  Darrell,  though  in- 
wardly wounded  by  the  small  trouble  they  took  to  in- 
clude him,  let  nothing  appear,  put  in  a  word  now  and 
then,  or  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  illustrated  books. 

After  five  minutes  a  fresh  guest  arrived.  In  walked 
the  little  Dean,  Dr.  W^inston,  who  had  originally  made 
acquaintance  with  Lady  Kitty  at  Grosville  Park.  He 
came  in  overflowing  with  spirits  and  enthusiasm.  He 
had  been  spending  the  morning  in  Westminster  Abbey 
with  another  Dean  more  famous  though  not  more 
charming  than  himself,  and  with  yet  another  congenial 

1 80 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

spirit,  one  of  the  younger  historians,  all  of  them  passion- 
ate lovers  of  the  rich  human  detail  of  the  past,  the  actual 
men  and  women,  kings,  queens,  bishops,  executioners, 
and  all  the  shreds  and  tatters  that  remained  of  them. 
Together  they  had  opened  a  royal  tomb,  and  the  Dean's 
eyes  were  sparkling  as  though  the  ghost  of  the  queen 
whose  ashes  he  had  been  handling  still  walked  and 
talked  with  him. 

He  passed  in  his  light,  disinterested  way  through  most 
sections  of  English  society,  though  the  slave  of  none; 
and  he  greeted  Darrell  and  Mrs.  Alcot  as  acquaintances. 
Mrs.  Alcot  introduced  Cliffe  to  him,  and  the  small  Dean 
bowed  rather  stiffly.  He  was  a  supporter  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  he  thought  Cliffe's  campaign  against  them 
vulgar  and  unfair. 

"Is  there  no  hope  of  Lady  Kitty?"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Alcot. 

"Not  much.     Shall  we  go  down  to  lunch?" 

"Without  our  hostess?"     The  Dean  opened  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  Kitty  expects  it,"  said  Mrs.  Alcot,  with  affected 
resignation,  "and  the  servants  are  quite  prepared. 
Kitty  asks  everybody  to  lunch — then  somebody  asks 
her — and  she  forgets.     It's  quite  simple." 

"Quite,"  said  Cliffe,  buttoning  up  his  coat,  "but  I 
think  I  shall  go  to  the  club." 

He  was  looking  for  his  hat,  when  again  there  was  a 
commotion  on  the  stairs — a  high  voice  giving  orders — 
and  in  burst  Kitty.  She  stood  still  as  soon  as  she  saw 
her  guests,  talking  so  fast  and  pouring  out  such  a  flood  of 
excuses  that  no  one  could  get  in  a  word.  Then  she  flew 
to  each  guest  in  turn,  taking  them  by  both  hands— 
Darrell  only  excepted — and  showing  herself  so  penitent, 


The    Marriage    of   Williani    Ashe 

amusing,  and  charming  that  everybody  was  propitiated. 
It  was  Fanchettc,  of  course — Fanchette  the  criminal,  the 
incomparable.  Her  dress  for  the  ball.  Kitty  raised  eyes 
and  hands  to  heaven — it  would  be  a  marvel,  a  miracle. 
Unless,  indeed,  she  were  lying  cold  and  quiet  in  her  little 
grave  before  the  time  came  to  wear  it.  But  Fanchette's 
tempers — Fanchette's  caprices — no!  Kitty  began  to 
mimic  the  great  dressmaker  torn  to  pieces  by  the  crowd 
of  fashionable  ladies,  stopping  abruptly  in  the  middle  to 
say  to  Cliffe: 

"  You  were  going  away  ?    I  saw  you  take  up  your  hat." 

"I  despaired  of  my  hostess,"  said  Cliffe,  with  a  smile. 
Then  as  he  perceived  that  Mrs.  Alcot  had  taken  up  the 
theme  and  was  holding  the  others  in  play,  he  added  in  a 
lower  voice,  "and  I  was  in  no  mood  for  second-best." 

Kitty's  eyes  twinkled  a  moment  as  she  turned  them 
on  Madeleine  Alcot. 

"Ah,  I  remember — at  Grosville  Park— what  a  bad 
temper  you  had.     You  would  have  gone  away  furious." 

"  With  disappointment — yes,"  said  ClifTe,  as  he  looked 
at  her  with  an  admiration  he  scarcely  endeavored  to 
conceal.  Kitty  was  in  black,  but  a  large  hat  of  white 
tulle,  in  the  most  extravagant  fashion  of  the  day,  made 
a  frame  for  her  hair  and  eyes,  and  increased  the  general 
lightness  and  fantasy  of  her  appearance.  Cliffe  tried  to 
recall  her  as  he  had  first  seen  her  at  Grosville  Park,  but 
his  recollection  of  the  young  girl  could  not  hold  its 
own  against  the  brilliant  and  emphatic  reality  before 
him. 

At  luncheon  it  chafed  him  that  he  must  divide  her 
with  the  Dean.  Yet  she  was  charming  with  the  old  man, 
who  chatted  history,  art,  and  Paris  to  her,  with  a  delight- 

182 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ful  innocence  and  ignorance  of  all  that  made  Lady  Kitty 
Ashe  the  talk  of  the  town,  and  an  old-fashioned  defer- 
ence besides,  that  insensibly  curbed  her  manner  and  her 
phrases  as  she  answered  him.  Yet  when  the  Dean  left 
her  free  she  returned  to  Cliff e,  as  though  in  some  sort 
they  two  had  really  been  talking  all  the  time,  through 
all  the  apparent  conversation  with  other  people. 

"I  have  read  all  your  telegrams,"  she  said.  "Why 
did  you  attack  William  so  fiercely?" 

Cliff e  was  taken  by  surprise,  but  he  felt  no  embar- 
rassment —  her  tone  was  not  that  of  the  wife  in 
arms. 

"I  attacked  the  official  —  not  the  man.  WilHam 
knows  that." 

"He  is  coming  in  to-day  if  possible.  He  wanted  to 
see  you." 

"Good  news!  William  knows  that  he  would  have 
hit  just  as  hard  in  my  place." 

"I  don't  think  he  would,"  said  Kitty,  calmly.  "He 
is  so  generous." 

The  color  rushed  to  Cliffe's  face. 

"Well  scored!  I  wish  I  had  a  wife  to  play  these 
strokes  for  me.  I  shall  argue  that  a  keen  politician  has 
no  right  to  be  generous.     He  is  at  war." 

Kitty  took  no  notice.  She  leaned  her  little  chin  on 
her  hand,  and  her  eyes  perused  the  face  of  her  com- 
panion. 

"Where  have  you  been  —  all  the  time — before 
America?" 

"In  the  deserts — fighting  devils,"  said  Cliffe,  after  a 
moment. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  she  asked,  wondering. 

183 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Read  my  new  book.  That  will  tell  you  about  the 
deserts." 

"And  the  devils?" 

"Ah,  I  keep  them  to  myself." 

"Do  you?"  she  said,  softly.  "I  have  just  read  your 
poems  over  again." 

Cliffe  gave  a  slight  start,  then  looked  indifferent. 

"Have  you?  But  they  were  written  three  years  ago. 
Dieu  merci,  one  finds  new  devils  like  new  acquaintances." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  her,  half  amused, 
half  arrested. 

"They  are  always  the  old,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
Their  eyes  met.  In  hers  was  the  same  veiled,  restless 
melancholy  as  in  his  own.  Together  with  the  dazzling 
air  of  youth  that  surrounded  her,  the  cherished,  flattered, 
luxurious  existence  that  she  and  her  house  suggested, 
they  made  a  strange  impression  upon  him.  "Does  she 
mean  me  to  understand  that  she  is  not  happy?"  he 
thought  to  himself.  But  the  next  moment  she  was  en- 
gaged in  a  merry  chatter  with  the  Dean,  and  all  trace  of 
the  mood  she  had  thus  momentarily  shown  him  had 
vanished. 

Half-way  through  the  luncheon,  Ashe  came  in.  He 
appeared,  fresh  and  smilmg,  irreproachably  dressed,  and 
showing  no  trace  whatever  of  the  hard  morning  of  official 
work  he  had  just  passed  through,  nor  of  the  many 
embarrassments  which,  as  every  one  knew,  were  weigh- 
ing on  the  Foreign  Office.  The  Dean,  with  his  keen 
sense  for  the  dramatic,  watched  the  meeting  between 
him  and  Cliffe  with  some  closeness,  having  in  mind  the 
almost  personal  duel  between  the  two  men — a  duel  of 

184 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

letters,  telegrams,  or  speeches,  which  had  been  lately 
carried  on  in  the  sight  of  Europe  and  America.  For  Ashe 
now  represented  the  Foreign  Office  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  had  been  much  badgered  by  the  Tory 
extremists  who  followed  Cliffe. 

Naturally,  being  Englishmen,  they  met  as  though 
nothing  had  happened  and  they  had  parted  the  day 
before  in  Pall  Mall.  A  "Hullo,  Ashe!"  and  "Hullo, 
Cliffe!  glad  to  see  you  back  again,"  completed  the 
matter.  The  Dean  enjoyed  it  as  a  specimen  of  English 
"  phlegm,"  recalling  with  amusement  his  last  visit  to  the 
Paris  of  the  Second  Empire — Paris  torn  between  govern- 
ment and  opposition,  the  salons  of  the  one  divided  from 
the  salons  of  the  other  by  a  sulphurous  gulf,  unless  when 
some  Lazarus  of  the  moment,  some  well-known  novelist 
or  poet,  cradled  in  the  Abraham's  bosom  of  Liberalism, 
passed  amid  shrieks  of  triumph  or  howls  of  treason  into 
the  official  inferno. 

Not  that  there  was  any  avoiding  of  topics  in  this 
English  case.  Ashe  had  no  sooner  slipped  into  his  seat 
than  he  began  to  banter  Cliffe  upon  a  letter  of  a  sup- 
porter which  had  appeared  in  that  morning's  Times. 
It  was  written  by  Lord  S.,  who  had  played  the  part  of 
public  "fool"  for  half  a  generation.  To  be  praised  by 
him  was  disaster,  and  Cliffe's  flush  showed  at  once  that 
the  letter  had  caused  him  acute  annoyance.  He  and 
Ashe  fell  upon  the  writer,  vying  with  each  other  in 
anecdotes  that  left  him  presently  close-plucked  and 
bare. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Kitty,  amid  the  laughter 
v/hich  greeted  the  last  tale,  "but  he  never  told  you  how 
he  proposed  to  the  second  Lady  S." 

185 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

And  lifting  a  red  strawberry,  which  she  held  poised 
against  her  red,  laughing  lips,  she  waited  a  moment — 
looking  round  her.  "Go  on,  Kitty,"  said  Ashe,  ap- 
provingly; "go  on." 

Thus  permitted,  Kitty  gave  one  of  the  little  "scenes," 
arranged  from  some  experience  of  her  own,  which  were 
very  famous  among  her  intimates.  Ashe  called  them 
her  "parlor  tricks,"  and  was  never  tired  of  making  her 
exhibit  them.  And  now,  just  as  at  Grosville  Park,  she 
held  her  audience.  She  spoke  without  a  halt,  her 
small  features  answering  perfectly  to  every  impulse  of 
her  talent,  each  touch  of  character  or  dialogue  as  telling 
as  a  malicious  sense  of  comedy  could  make  it;  arms, 
hands,  shoulders  all  aiding  in  the  final  result — a  table 
swept  by  a  very  storm  of  laughter,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Kitty  quietly  finished  her  strawberry. 

"Well  done,  Kitty!"  Ashe,  who  sat  opposite  to  her, 
stretched  his  hand  across,  and  patted  hers. 

"Does  she  love  him?"  Cliffe  asked  himself,  and  could 
not  make  up  his  mind,  closely  as  he  tried  to  observe  their 
relations.  He  was  more  and  more  conscious  of  the  ex- 
citing effect  she  produced  on  himself,  doubly  so,  indeed, 
because  of  that  sudden  stroke  of  melancholy  wherewith — 
like  a  Rembrandt  shadow,  she  had  thrown  into  relief  the 
gayety  and  frivolity  of  her  ordinary  mood. 

The  stimulus,  whatever  it  was,  played  upon  his  vanity. 
He,  too,  sought  an  opening  and  found  it.  Soon  it  was  he 
who  was  monopolizing  the  conversation  with  an  account 
of  two  days  spent  with  Bismarck  in  a  Prussian  country- 
house,  during  the  triumphant  days  of  the  winter  which 
followed  on  Sadowa.  The  story  was  brilliantly  told,  and 
of  some  political  importance.     But  it  was  disfigured  by 

i86 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

arrogance  and  affectation,  and  Ashe's  eyes  began  to 
dance  a  little.  Cliffe  meanwhile  could  not  forget  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  a  rival  and  an  official,  could  not 
refrain  after  a  while  from  a  note  of  challenge  here  and 
there.  The  conversation  diverged  from  the  tale  into 
matters  of  current  foreign  politics.  Ashe,  lounging  and 
smoking,  at  first  knew  nothing,  had  heard  of  nothing, 
as  usual.  Then  a  comment  or  correction  dropped  out; 
Cliffe  repeated  himself  vehemently  —  only  to  provoke 
another.  Presently,  no  one  knew  how,  the  two  men 
were  measured  against  each  other  corps  a  corps — the  wide 
knowledge  and  trained  experience  of  the  minister  against 
the  originality,  the  force,  the  fantastic  imagination  of 
the  writer. 

The  Dean  watched  it  with  delight.  He  was  ver}^  fond 
of  Ashe,  and  liked  to  see  him  getting  the  better  of  "the 
newspaper  fellow."  Kitty's  lovely  brown  eyes  travelled 
from  one  to  the  other.  Now  it  seemed  to  the  Dean  that 
she  was  proud  of  Ashe,  now  that  she  sympathized  with 
Cliffe.  Soon,  however,  like  the  god  at  Philippi,  she  swept 
upon  the  poet  and  bore  him  from  the  field. 

"Not  a  word  more  politics!"  she  said,  peremptorily, 
to  Ashe,  holding  up  her  hand.  "/  want  to  talk  to  Mr. 
Cliffe  about  the  ball." 

Cliffe  was  not  very  ready  to  obey.  He  had  an  angry 
sense  of  having  been  somehow  shown  to  disadvantage, 
and  would  like  to  have  challenged  his  host  again.  But 
Kitty  poured  balm  into  his  wounds.  She  drew  him  apart 
a  little,  using  the  play  of  her  beautiful  eyes  for  him  only, 
and  talking  to  him  in  a  new  voice  of  deference. 
•  "You're  going,  of  course?  Lady  M.  told  me  the 
other  day  she  must  have  you." 
^3  187 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Cliffe,  still  a  little  morose,  replied  that  his  invitation 
had  been  waiting  for  him  at  his  London  rooms.  He  gave 
the  information  carelessly,  as  though  it  did  not  matter  to 
him  a  straw.  In  reality,  as  soon  as,  while  still  in  America, 
he  had  seen  the  announcement  of  the  bail  in  one  of  the 
New  York  papers,  he  had  written  at  once  to  the  Mar- 
chioness who  was  to  give  it — an  old  acquaintance  of  his 
— practically  demanding  an  invitation.  It  had  been 
sent  indeed  with  alacrity,  and  without  waiting  for  its 
arrival  Cliffe  had  ordered  his  dress  in  Paris.  Kitty  in- 
quired what  it  was  to  be. 

"I  told  my  man  to  copy  a  portrait  of  Alva." 

"Ah,  that's  right,"  said  Kitty,  nodding — " that's  right. 
Only  it  would  have  been  better  if  it  had  been  Torque- 
mada." 

Rather  nettled,  Cliffe  asked  what  there  might  be  about 
him  that  so  forcibly  suggested  the  Grand  Inquisitor, 
Kitty,  cigarette  in  hand,  with  half-shut  eyes,  did  not 
answer  immediately.  She  seemed  to  be  perusing  his  face 
with  difficulty. 

"Strength,  I  suppose,"  she  said  at  last,  slowly. 
Cliffe  waited,  then  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"And  cruelty?"     She  nodded. 

"Who  are  my  victims?" 

She  said  nothing. 

"Whose  tales  have  you  been  listening  to,  Lady 
Kitty  ?" 

She  mentioned  the  name  of  a  French  lady.  Cliffe 
changed  countenance, 

"Ah,  well,  if  you  have  been  talking  to  her,"  he  said, 
haughtily,  "you  may  well  expect  to  see  me  appear  as 
Diabolus  in  person." 

i88 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"No.  But  it's  since  then  that  I've  read  the  poems 
again.     You  see,  you  tell  the  public  so  much — " 

"That  you  think  you  have  the  right  to  guess  the 
rest  ?"  He  paused,  then  added,  with  impatience,  "  Don't 
guess.  Lady  Kitty.  You  have  everything  that  life  can 
give  you.     Let  my  secrets  alone." 

There  was  silence.  Kitty  looking  round  her  saw  that 
Madeleine  Alcot  was  entertaining  her  other  guests,  and 
that  she  and  Cliffe  were  unobserved.  Suddenly  Cliffe 
bent  towards  her,  and  said,  with  roughness,  his  face 
struggling  to  conceal  the  feeling  behind  it: 

"You  heard — and  you  believed — that  I  tormented  her 
—that  I  killed  her?" 

The  anguish  in  his  eyes  seemed  to  strike  a  certain 
answering  fire  from  Kitty's. 

"Yes,  but—" 

"But  what?" 

"I  didn't  think  it  very  strange — " 

Cliffe  watched  her  closely. 

" — that  a  man  should  be — an  inhuman  beast — if  he 
were  jealous — and  desperate.  You  can  sympathize  with 
these  things?" 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  threw  away  the  cigarette 
she  had  been  holding  suspended  in  her  small  fingers. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  them." 

"Because,"  he  hesitated,  "your  own  life  has  been 
so  happy?" 

She  evaded  him.  "  Don't  you  think  that  jealousy  will 
soon  be  as  dead  as — saying  your  prayers  and  going  to 
church?  I  never  meet  anybody  that  cares  enough — ^to 
be  jealous." 

She  spoke  first  with  passionate  force,  then  with  con- 
189 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

tempt,  glancing  across  the  room  at  Madeleine  Alcot. 
Cliffe  saw  the  look,  and  remembered  that  Mrs.  Alcot's 
husband,  a  distinguished  treasury  official,  had  been  for 
years  the  intimate  friend  of  a  very  noble  and  beautiful 
woman,  herself  unhappily  married.  There  was  no 
scandal  in  the  matter,  though  much  talk.  Mrs.  Alcot 
meanwhile  had  her  own  affairs;  her  husband  and  she 
were  apparently  on  friendly  terms;  only  neither  ever 
spoke  of  the  other;  and  their  relations  remained  a  mys- 
tery. 

Cliffe  bent  over  to  Kitty. 

"And  yet  you  said  you  could  understand?  —  such 
things  didn't  seem  strange  to  you." 

She  gave  a  little,  reckless  laugh. 

"Did  I?  It's  like  the  people  who  think  they  could 
act  or  sing,  if  they  only  had  the  chance.  I  choose  to 
think  I  could  feel.  And  of  course  I  couldn't.  We've 
lost  the  power.  All  the  old,  horrible,  splendid  things  are 
dead  and  done  with." 

"The  old  passions,  you  mean?" 

"And  the  old  poems!  You'll  never  write  like  that 
again." 

"God  forbid!"  said  Cliffe,  under  his  breath.  Then  as 
Kitty  rose  he  followed  her  with  his  eyes.  "Lady  Kitty, 
you've  thrown  me  a  challenge  that  you  hardly  under- 
stand.    Some  day  I  must  answer  it." 

"Don't  answer  it,"  said  Kitty,  hastily. 

"Yes,  if  I  can  drag  the  words  out,"  he  said,  sombrely. 
She  met  his  look  in  a  kind  of  fascination,  excited  by  the 
memory  of  the  story  which  had  been  told  her,  by  her  own 
audacity  in  speaking  of  it,  by  the  presence  of  the  dead 
passion   she  divined  lying  shrouded  and  ghastly  in  the 

190 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

mind  of  the  man  beside  her.  Even  the  ugly  things  of 
which  he  was  accused  did  but  add  to  the  interest  of  his 
personality  for  a  nature  like  hers,  greedy  of  experience, 
and  discontented  with  the  real. 

While  he  on  his  side  was  flattered  and  astonished 
by  her  attitude  towards  him,  as  Ashe's  wife,  she  would 
surely  dislike  and  try  to  trample  on  him.  That  was 
what  he  had  expected. 

"I  hear  you  are  an  Archangel,  Lady  Kitty,"  said  the 
Dean,  who,  having  obstinately  outstayed  all  the  other 
guests,  had  now  settled  his  small  person  and  his  thin  legs 
into  a  chair  beside  his  hostess  with  a  view  to  five  agree- 
able minutes.  He  was  the  most  harmless  of  social 
epicures,  was  the  Dean,  and  he  felt  that  Lady  Kitty  had 
defrauded  him  at  lunch  in  favor  of  that  great,  ruffling, 
Byronic  fellow  Cliffe,  who  ought  to  have  better  taste  than 
to  come  lunching  with  the  Ashes. 

"Am  I  ?"  said  Kitty,  who  had  thrown  herself  into  the 
comer  of  a  sofa,  and  sat  curled  up  there  in  an  attitude 
which  the  Dean  thought  charming,  though  it  would  not, 
he  was  aware,  "have  become  Mrs.  Winston. 

"  Well,  you  know  best,"  said  the  Dean.  "  But,  at  any 
rate,  be  good  and  explain  to  me  what  is  an  Archangel." 

"Somebody  whom  most  men  and  all  women  dislike," 
said  Kitty,  promptly. 

"Yet  they  seem  to  be  numerous,"  remarked  the  Dean. 

"Not  at  all!"  cried  Kitty,  with  an  air  of  offence; 
"  not  at  all !  If  they  were  numerous  they  would,  of  course, 
be  popular." 

"And  in  fact  they  are  rare — and  detested?  What 
other  characteristics  have  they?" 

191 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Courage,"  said  Kitty,  looking  up. 

"Courage  to  break  rules?  I  hear  they  all  call  one 
another  by  their  Christian  names,  and  live  in  one  an- 
other's rooms,  and  borrow  one  another's  money,  and 
despise  conventionalities.  I  am  sorry  you  are  an  Arch- 
angel, Lady  Kitty." 

"I  didn't  admit  that  I  was,"  said  Kitty,  "but  if  I  am, 
why  arc  you  sorry?" 

"Because,"  said  the  Dean,  smiling,  "I  thought  you 
were  too  clever  to  despise  conventionalities." 

Kitty  sat  up  with  revived  energy,  and  joined  battle. 
She  flew  into  a  tirade  as  to  the  dulness  and  routine 
of  English  life,  the  stupidity  of  good  people,  and  the 
tyranny  of  English  hypocrisy.  The  Dean  listened  with 
amusement,  then  with  a  shade  of  something  else.  At 
last  he  got  up  to  go. 

"  Well,  you  know,  we  have  heard  all  that  before.  My 
point  of  view  is  so  much  more  interesting — subtle — 
romantic!  Anybody  can  attack  Mrs.  Grundy,  but  only 
a  person  of  originality  can  adore  her.  Try  it,  Lady 
Kitty.     It  would  be  really  worth  your  while." 

Kitty  mocked  and  exclaimed. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  phrase — that  name  of 
abomination — always  recalls  to  me?"  pursued  the  old 
man. 

"It  bores  me,  even  to  guess,"  was  Kitty's  petulant 
reply. 

"Does  it?  I  think  of  some  of  the  noblest  people  I 
have  ever  known — brave  men — beautiful  women — who 
fought  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  perished." 

The  Dean  stood  looking  down  upon  her,  with  an 
eager,  sensitive  expression.     Tales  that  he  had  heeded 

192 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

very  little  when  he  had  first  heard  them  ran  through  his 
mind;  he  had  thought  Lady  Kitty's  intimate  tete-a-tete 
with  her  husband's  assailant  in  the  press  disagreeable 
and  unseemly;  and  as  for  Mrs.  Alcot,  he  had  disliked 
her  particularly. 

Kitty  looked  up  unquelled. 

"  '  'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all — '  " 

she  quoted,  with  one  of  her  most  radiant  and  provoking 
smiles. 

"Incorrigible!"  cried  the  Dean,  catching  up  his  hat. 
"I  see!     Once  an  Archangel — always  an  Archangel." 

"Oh  no!"  said  Kitty.  "There  may  be  'war  in 
heaven.' " 

"Well,  don't  take  Mrs.  Alcot  for  a  leader,  that's 
all,"  said  the  Dean,  as  he  held  out  a  hand  of  fare- 
well. 

"And  now  I  understand!"  cried  Kitty,  triumphantly. 
"You  detest  my  best  friend." 

The  Dean  laughed,  protested,  and  went.  Ashe,  who 
had  been  writing  letters  while  Kitty  and  the  Dean  were 
talking,  escorted  the  old  man  to  the  door. 

When  he  returned  he  found  Kitty  sitting  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  lost  apparently  in  thought. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch,  "I  must  be 
off  directly,  but  I  should  like  to  see  the  boy." 

Kitty  started.  She  rang,  and  the  child  was  brought 
down.  He  sat  on  Kitty's  knee,  and  Ashe  coming  to  the 
sofa,  threw  an  arm  round  them  both. 

"  You  are  not  a  bad-looking  pair,"  he  said,  kissing  first 

193 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

Kitty  and  then  the  baby.     "  But  he's  rather  pale,  Kitty. 
I  think  he  wants  the  country." 

Kitty  said  nothing,  but  she  Hfted  the  little  white 
embroidered  frock  and  looked  at  the  twisted  foot.  Then 
Ashe  felt  her  shudder. 

"Dear,  don't  be  morbid!"  he  cried,  resentfully.  "He 
will  have  so  much  brains  that  nobody  will  remember  that. 
Think  of  Byron." 

Kitty  did  not  seem  to  have  heard. 

"I  remember  so  well  when  I  first  saw  his  foot — after 
your  mother  told  me — and  they  brought  him  to  me," 
she  said,  slowly.  "It  seemed  to  me  it  was  the 
end — " 

"The  end  of  what?" 

"Of  my  dream." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Kitty!" 

"Do  you  remember  the  mask  in  the  'Tempest'? 
First  Iris,  with  saffron  wings,  and  rich  Ceres,  and  great 
Juno — " 

She  half  closed  her  eyes. 

"Then  the  nymphs  and  the  reapers — dancing  together 
on  'the  short-grassed  green,'  the  sweetest,  gayest 
show — " 

She  breathed  the  words  out  softly.  "Then,  sud- 
denly— " 

She  sat  up  stiffly  and  struck  her  small  hands  to- 
gether: 

"Prospero  starts  and  speaks.  And  in  a  moment — 
without  warning — with  '  a  strange,  hollow,  and  confused 
noise'" — she  dragged  the  words  drearily — ''they  heavily 
vanish.  That" — she  pointed,  shuddering,  to  the  child's 
foot — "was  for  me  the  sign  of  Prospero." 

194 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

Ashe  looked  at  her  with  anxiety,  finding  it  indeed 
impossible  to  laugh  at  her. 

She  was  very  pale,  her  breath  came  with  difficulty, 
and  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  He  tried  to  draw 
her  into  his  arms,  but  she  held  him  away. 

"That  first  year  I  had  been  so  happy,"  she  continued, 
in  the  same  voice.  "Everything  was  so  perfect,  so 
glorious.  Life  was  like  a  great  pageant,  in  a  palace. 
All  the  old  terrors  went.  I  often  had  fears  as  a  child — 
fears  I  couldn't  put  into  words,  but  that  overshadowed 
me.  Then  when  I  saw  AHce — the  shadow  came  nearer. 
But  that  was  all  gone.  I  thought  God  was  reconciled 
to  me,  and  would  always  be  kind  to  me  now.  And  then 
I  saw  that  foot,  and  I  knew  that  He  hated  me  still. 
He  had  burned  His  mark  into  my  baby's  flesh.  And  I 
was  never  to  be  quite  happy  again,  but  always  in  fear, 
fear  of  pain — and  death — and  grief — " 

She  paused.  Her  large  eyes  gazed  into  vacancy,  and 
her  whole  slight  frame  showed  the  working  of  some 
mysterious  and  pitiful  distress. 

A  wave  of  poignant  alarm  swept  through  Ashe's  mind, 
coupled  also  with  a  curious  sense  of  something  foreseen. 
He  had  never  witnessed  precisely  this  mood  in  her  beforie ; 
but  now  that  it  was  thus  revealed,  he  was  suddenly  aware 
that  something  like  it  had  been  for  long  moving  obscure- 
ly below  the  surface  of  her  life.  He  took  the  child  and 
laid  him  on  the  floor,  where  he  rolled  at  ease,  cooing  to 
himself.  Then  he  came  back  to  Kitty,  and  soothed  her 
with  extraordinary  tenderness  and  skill.  Presently  she 
looked  at  him,  as  though  some  obscure  trouble  of  which 
she  had  been  the  victim  had  released  her,  and  she  were 
herself  again. 

I9S 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

"Don't  go  away  just  yet,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  which 
was  still  low  and  shaken.  He  came  close  to  her,  again 
put  his  arms  round  her,  and  held  her  on  his  breast  in 
silence. 

"That  is  heavenly!"  he  heard  her  say  to  herself  after 
a  while,  in  a  whisper. 

"Kitty!"  His  eyes  grew  dim  and  he  stooped  to  kiss 
her. 

"Heavenly — "  she  went  on,  still  as  though  following 
out  her  own  thought  rather  than  speaking  to  him, 
"because  one  yields — yields!  Life  is  such  tension — 
always." 

She  closed  her  eyes  quickly,  and  he  watched  the 
beautiful  lashes  lying  still  upon  her  cheek.  With  an 
emotion  he  could  not  explain — for  it  was  not  an  emotion 
of  the  senses,  just  as  her  yielding  had  not  been  a  yielding 
of  the  senses  but  a  yielding  of  the  soul — he  continued 
to  hold  her  in  his  arms,  her  life,  her  will  given  to  him 
wholly,  sighed  out  upon  his  heart. 

Then  gradually  she  recovered  her  balance ;  the  normal 
Kitty  came  back.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched 
his  face. 

"You  must  go  back  to  the  House,  William." 

"Yes,  if  you  are  all  right." 

She  sat  up,  and  began  to  rearrange  some  of  her  hair 
that  had  slipped  down. 

"You  have  carried  us  both  into  such  heights  and 
depths,  darling!"  said  Ashe,  after  he  had  watched  her  a 
little  in  silence,  "that  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  the 
gossip  I  brought  back  from  mother  this  morning." 

Kitty  paused,  interrogatively.     She  was  still  pale. 

196 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Do  you  know  that  mother  is  convinced  Mary  Lyster 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  CHffe  ?" 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Kitty  said,  with  incredulous 
contempt:  "He  would  never  dream  of  marrying  her!" 

"Not  so  sure!  She  has  a  great  deal  of  money,  and 
Cliff e  wants  money  badly." 

Ashe  began  to  put  his  papers  together.  Kitty  ques- 
tioned him  a  little  more,  intermittently,  as  to  what  his 
mother  had  said.  When  he  had  left  her,  she  sat  for 
long  on  the  sofa,  playing  with  some  flowers  she  had  taken 
from  her  dress,  or  sombrely  watching  the  child,  as  it  lay 
on  the  floor  beside  her. 


M^ 


X 


Y  lady!     It's  come!" 

The  maid  put  her  head  in  just  to  convey  the 
good  news.  Kitty  was  in  her  bedroom  walking  up  and 
down  in  a  fury  which  was  now  almost  speechless. 

The  housemaid  was  waiting  on  the  stairs.  The  butler 
was  waiting  in  the  hall.  Till  that  hurried  knock  was 
heard  at  the  front  door,  and  the  much-tried  Wilson  had 
rushed  to  open  it,  the  house  had  been  wrapped  in  a  sort 
of  storm  silence.  It  was  ten  o'clock  on  the  night  of  the 
ball.  Half  Kitty's  costume  lay  spread  out  upon  her  bed. 
The  other  half — although  since  seven  o'clock  all  Kitty's 
servants  had  been  employed  in  rushing  to  Fanchette's 
establishment  in  New  Bond  Street,  at  half-hour  inter- 
vals, in  the  fastest  hansoms  to  be  found — had  not  yet 
appeared. 

However,  here  at  last  was  the  end  of  despair.  A 
panting  boy  dragged  the  box  into  the  hall,  the  butler  and 
footman  carried  it  up-stairs  and  into  their  mistress's 
room,  where  Kitty  in  a  white  peignoir  stood  waiting, 
with  the  brow  of  Medea. 

"The  boy  that  brought  it  looked  just  fit  to  drop,  my 
lady!"  said  the  maid,  as  she  undid  the  box.  She  was  a 
zealous  servant,  but  she  was  glad  sometimes  to  chasten 
these  great  ones  of  the  land  by  insisting  on  the  seamy 
side  of  their  pleasures. 

1-98 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Kitty  paused  in  the  eager  task  of  superintendence,  and 
turned  to  the  under-housemaid,  who  stood  by,  gazing 
open-mouthed  at  the  splendors  emerging  from  the 
box. 

"Run  down  and  tell  Wilson  to  give  him  some  wine 
and  cake!"  she  said,  peremptorily.  "  It's  all  Fanchette's 
fault — odious  creature! — running  it  to  the  last  like  this 
—  after  all  her  promises!" 

The  housemaid  went,  and  soon  sped  back.  For  no 
boy  on  earth  would  she  have  been  long  defrauded  of  the 
sight  of  her  ladyship's  completed  gown. 

"Did  Wilson  feed  him?"  Kitty  flung  her  the  ques- 
tion as  she  bent,  alternately  frowning  and  jubilant,  over 
the  creation  before  her. 

"Yes,  my  lady.  It  was  quite  a  little  fellow.  He  said 
his  legs  were  just  run  off  his  feet,"  said  the  girl,  growing 
confused  as  the  moon-robe  unfolded. 

"  Poor  wretch!"  said  Kitty,  carelessly.  "  I'm  glad  I'm 
not  an  errand —  Blanche!  you  know  Fanchette  may 
be  an  old  demon,  but  she  has  got  taste!  Just  look  at 
these  folds,  and  the  way  she's  put  on  the  pearls!  Now 
then — make  haste!" 

Off  flew  the  peignoir,  and,  with  the  help  of  the  excited 
maids,  Kitty  slipped  into  her  dress.  Ten  times  over  did 
she  declare  that  it  was  hopeless,  that  it  didn't  fit  in  the 
least,  that  it  wasn't  one  bit  what  she  had  ordered,  that 
she  couldn't  and  wouldn't  go  out  in  it,  that  it  was 
simply  scandalous,  and  Fanchette  should  never  be  paid 
a  penny.  Her  maids  understood  her,  and  simply  went 
on  pulling,  patting,  fastening,  as  quickly  as  their  skilled 
fingers  could  work,  till  the  last  fold  fell  into  its  place, 
and  the  under-housemaid  stepped  back  with  clasped 

199 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

hands  and  an  "Oh,  my  lady!"  couched  in  a  note  of  irre- 
pressible ecstasy. 

"Well?"  said  Kitty,  still  frowning— "eh,  Blanche?" 

The  maid  proper  would  have  scorned  to  show  emotion ; 
but  she  nodded  approval.  "If  you  ask  me,  my  lady, 
I  think  you  have  never  looked  so  well  in  anything." 

Kitty's  brow  relaxed  at  last,  as  she  stood  gazing  at 
the  reflection  in  the  large  glass  before  her.  She  saw  her- 
self as  Artemis — k  la  Madame  de  Longueville — in  a 
hunting-dress  of  white  silk,  descending  to  the  ankles, 
embroidered  from  top  to  toe  in  crescents  of  seed  pearls 
and  silver,  and  held  at  the  waist  by  a  silver  girdle.  Her 
throat  was  covered  with  magnificent  pearls,  a  Tranmore 
family  possession,  lent  by  Lady  Tranmore  for  the  occa- 
sion. The  slim  ankles  and  feet  were  cased  in  white  silk, 
cross-gartered  with  silver  and  shod  with  silver  sandals. 
Her  belt  held  her  quiver  of  white-winged  arrows ;  her  bow 
of  ivory  inlaid  with  silver  was  slung  at  her  shoulder, 
while  across  her  breast,  the  only  note  of  color  in  the  gen- 
eral harmony  of  white,  fell  a  scarf  of  apple-green  hold- 
ing the  horn,  also  of  ivory  and  silver,  which,  like  the 
belt  and  bow,  had  been  designed  for  her  in  Madame  de 
Longueville's  Paris, 

But  neither  she  nor  her  model  would  have  been  finally 
content  with  an  adornment  so  delicately  fanciful  and 
minute.  Both  Kitty  and  the  goddess  of  the  Fronde 
knew  that  they  must  hold  their  own  in  a  crowd.  For 
this  there  must  be  diamonds.  The  sleeves,  therefore, 
on  the  white  arms  fell  back  from  diamond  clasps;  the 
ivory  spear  in  her  right  hand  was  topped  by  a  small 
genius  with  glittering  wings ;  and  in  the  masses  of  her  fair 
hair,  bound  with  pearl  fillets,  shone  the  large  diamond 

200 


THE    FIXISHIXG    TOUCHES 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

crescent  that  Lady  Tranmore  had  foreseen,  with  one  small 
attendant  star  at  either  side. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  Kitty!"  said  a  voice  from  her 
husband's  dressing-room. 

Kitty  turned  impetuously. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  she  cried.  Ashe  approached.  She 
lifted  her  horn  to  her  mouth  and  stood  tiptoe.  The 
movement  was  enchanting;  it  had  in  it  the  youth  and 
freshness  of  spring  woods;  it  suggested  mountain  dis- 
tances and  the  solitudes  of  high  valleys.  Intoxication 
spoke  in  Ashe's  pulses;  he  wished  the  maids  had  been  far 
away  that  he  might  have  taken  the  goddess  in  his  very 
human  arms.     Instead  of  which  he  stood  lazily  smiling. 

"What  Endymion  are  you  calling?"  he  asked  her. 
"Kitty,  you  are  a  dream!" 

Kitty  pirouetted,  then  suddenly  stopped  short  and 
held  out  a  foot. 

"Look  at  those  silk  things,  sir.  Nobody  but  Fan- 
chette  could  have  made  them  look  anything  but  a  botch. 
But  they  spoil  the  dress.  And  all  to  please  mother  and 
Mrs.  Grundy!" 

"I  like  them.  I  suppose — the  nearest  you  could  get 
to  buskins  ?  You  would  have  preferred  ankles  au  nat- 
urel?     I  don't  think  you'd  have  been  admitted,  Kitty." 

"Shouldn't  I  ?  And  so  few  people  have  feet  they  can 
show!"  sighed  Kitty,  regretfully. 

Ashe's  eyes  met  those  of  the  maid,  who  was  trying  to 
hide  her  smiles,  and  he  and  she  both  laughed. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it,  eh,  Blanche?" 

"I  think  her  ladyship  is  much  better  as  she  is,"  said 
the  maid,  decidedly.  "She'd  have  felt  very  strange 
when  she  got  there." 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Kitty  turned  upon  her  like  a  whirlwind.  "Go  to 
bed!"  she  said,  putting  both  hands  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  maid.  "  Go  to  bed  at  once!  Esther  can  give  me  my 
cloak.  Do  you  know,  William,  she  was  awake  all  last 
night  thinking  of  her  brother?" 

"The  brother  who  has  had  an  operation?  But  I 
thought  there  was  good  news?"  said  Ashe,  kindly. 

"He's  much  better,"  put  in  Kitty.  "She  heard  this 
afternoon.  She  won't  be  such  a  goose  as  to  lie  awake,  I 
should  hope,  to-night.  Don't  let  me  catch  you  here  when 
I  get  back!"  she  said,  releasing  the  girl,  whose  eyes  had 
filled  with  tears.  "  Mr.  Ashe  will  help  me,  and  if  he  pulls 
the  strings  into  knots,  I  shall  just  cut  them — so  there! 
Go  away,  get  your  supper,  and  go  to  bed.  Such  a  life  as 
I've  led  them  all  to-day!"  She  threw  up  her  hands  in 
a  perfunctory  penitence. 

The  maid  was  forced  to  go,  and  the  housemaid  also 
returned  to  the  hall  with  Kitty's  opera-cloak  and  fan,  till 
it  should  please  her  mistress  to  descend.  Both  of  them 
were  dead  tired,  but  they  took  a  genuine  disinterested 
pleasure  in  Kitty's  beauty  and  her  fine  frocks.  She  was 
not  by  any  means  always  considerate  of  them ;  but  still, 
with  that  wonderful  generosity  that  the  poor  show 
every  day  to  the  rich,  they  liked  her;  and  to  Ashe  every 
servant  in  the  house  was  devoted. 

Kitty  meanwhile  had  driven  Ashe  to  his  own  toilette, 
and  was  walking  about  the  room,  now  studying  herself 
in  the  glass,  and  now  chattering  to  him  through  the 
open  door. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  more  about  Tuesday?" 
she  asked  him,  presently, 

"Oh  yes! — compliments  by  the  dozen.     Old  Parham 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

overtook  me  as  I  was  walking  away  from  the  House,  and 
said  all  manner  of  civil  things." 

"And  I  met  Lady  Parham  in  Marshall's,"  said  Kitt^^ 
"She  does  thank  so  badly!  I  should  like  to  show  her 
how  to  do  it.  Dear  me!"  Kitty  sighed.  "Am  I  hence- 
forth to  live  and  die  on  Lady  Parham's  ample  breast?" 

She  sat  with  one  foot  beating  the  floor,  deep  in  med- 
itation. 

"And  shall  I  tell  you  what  mother  said?"  shouted 
Ashe  through  the  door. 

"Yes." 

He  repeated — so  far  as  dressing  would  let  him — a 
number  of  the  charming  and  considered  phrases  in  which 
Lady  Tranmore,  full  of  relief,  pleasure,  and  a  secret 
self-reproach,  had  expressed  to  him  the  effect  produced 
upon  herself  and  a  select  public  by  Kitty's  performance 
at  the  Parhams'.  Kitty  had  indeed  behaved  like  an 
angel — an  angel  en  toilette  de  hal,  reciting  a  scene  from 
Alfred  de  Musset.  Such  politeness  to  Lady  Parham, 
such  smiles,  sometimes  a  shade  malicious,  for  the  Prime 
Minister,  who  on  his  side  did  his  best  to  efface  all  mem- 
ory of  his  speech  of  the  week  before  from  the  mind  of  his 
fascinating  guest;  smiles  from  the  Princess,  applause 
from  the  audience;  an  evening,  in  fact,  all  froth  and 
sweetstuff,  from  which  Lady  Parham  emerged  grimly 
content,  conscious  at  the  same  time  that  she  was  hence- 
forward very  decidedly,  and  rather  disagreeably,  in  the 
Ashes'  debt;  while  Elizabeth  Tranmore  went  home  in  a 
tremor  of  delight,  happily  persuaded  that  Ashe's  path 
was  now  clear. 

Kitty  listened,  sometimes  pleased,  sometimes  in- 
clined to  be  critical  or  scornful  of  her  mother-in-law's 
14  203 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

praise.  But  she  did  love  Lady  Tranmore,  and  on  the 
whole  she  smiled.  Smiles,  indeed,  had  been  Kitty's  por- 
tion since  that  evening  of  strange  emotion,  when  she  had 
found  herself  sobbing  in  William's  arms  for  reasons 
quite  beyond  her  own  defining.  It  was  as  if,  like  the 
prince  in  the  fairy  tale,  some  iron  band  round  her  heart 
had  given  way.  She  seemed  to  dance  through  the  house ; 
she  devoured  her  child  with  kisses;  and  she  was  even 
willing  sometimes  to  let  William  tell  her  what  his  mother 
suspected  of  the  progress  of  Mary's  affair  with  Geoffrey 
Cliff e,  though  she  carefully  avoided  speaking  directly  to 
Lady  Tranmore  about  it.  As  to  Cliffe  himself,  she  seem- 
ed to  have  dropped  him  out  of  her  thoughts.  She  never 
mentioned  him,  and  Ashe  could  only  suppose  she  had 
found  him  disenchanting. 

"  Well,  darling!  I  hope  I  have  made  a  sufficient  fool  of 
myself  to  please  you!" 

Ashe  had  thrown  the  door  wide,  and  stood  on  the 
threshold,  arrayed  in  the  brocade  and  fur  of  a  Venetian 
noble.  He  was  a  somewhat  magnificent  apparition, 
and  Kitty,  who  had  coaxed  or  driven  him  into  the 
dress,  gave  a  scream  of  delight.  She  saw  him  before 
her  own  glass,  and  the  crimson  senator  made  eyes 
at  the  white  goddess  as  they  posed  triumphantly  to- 
gether. 

"You're  a  very  rococo  sort  of  goddess,  you  know, 
Kitty!"  said  Ashe.     "Not  much  Greek  about  you!" 

"Quite  as  much  as  I  want,  thank  you,"  said  Kitty, 
courtesying  to  her  own  reflection  in  the  glass.  "Fan- 
chette  could  have  taught  them  a  thing  or  two!  Now 
come  along!     Ah!     Wait!" 

And,  gathering  up  her  possessions,  she  left  the  room. 
204 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

Ashe,  following  her,  saw  that  she  was  going  to  the 
nursery,  a  large  room  on  the  back  staircase.  At  the 
threshold  she  turned  back  and  put  her  finger  to  her  lip. 
Then  she  slipped  in,  reappearing  a  moment  afterwards 
to  say,  in  a  whisper,  "Nurse  is  not  in  bed.  You  may 
come  in."  Nurse,  indeed,  knew  much  better  than  to  be 
in  bed.  She  had  been  sitting  up  to  see  her  ladyship's 
splendors,  and  she  rose  smiling  as  Ashe  entered  the 
room. 

"A  parcel  of  idiots,  nurse,  aren't  we?"  he  said,  as  he, 
too,  displayed  himself,  and  then  he  followed  Kitty  to  the 
child's  bedside.  She  bent  over  the  baby,  removed  a 
corner  of  the  cot-blanket  that  might  tease  his  cheek, 
touched  the  mottled  hand  softly,  removed  a  light  that 
seemed  to  her  too  near — and  still  stood  looking. 

"We  must  go,  Kitty." 

"I  wish  he  were  a  little  older,"  she  said,  discontent- 
edly, under  her  breath,  "that  he  might  wake  up  and  see 
us  both!     I  should  like  him  to  remember  me  like  this." 

"Queen  and  huntress,  come  away!"  said  Ashe,  draw- 
ing her  by  the  hand. 

Outside  the  landing  was  dimly  lighted.  The  servants 
were  all  waiting  in  the  hall  below. 

"Kitty,"  said  Ashe,  passionately,  "give  me  one  kiss. 
You're  so  sweet  to-night — so  sweetr' 

She  turned. 

"Take  care  of  my  dress!"  she  smiled,  and  then  she 
held  out  her  face  under  its  sparkling  crescent,  held  it  with 
a  dainty  deliberation,  and  let  her  lips  cling  to  his. 

Ashe  and  Kitty  were  soon  wedged  into  one  of  the 
interminable   lines   of   carriages   that   blocked    all   the 

205 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

approaches  to  St.  James's  Square.  The  ball  had  been 
long  expected,  and  there  was  a  crowd  in  the  streets,  kept 
back  by  the  police.  The  brougham  went  at  a  foot's 
pace,  and  there  was  ample  time  either  for  reverie  or  con- 
versation. Kitty  looked  out  incessantly,  exclaiming 
when  she  caught  sight  of  a  costume  or  an  acquaintance. 
Ashe  had  time  to  think  over  the  latest  phase  of  the  ne- 
gotiations with  America,  and  to  go  over  in  his  mind  the 
sentences  of  a  letter  he  had  addressed  to  the  Times  in 
answer  to  one  of  great  violence  from  Geoffrey  Cliffe. 
His  own  letter  had  appeared  that  morning.  Ashe  was 
proud  of  it.  He  made  bold  to  think  that  it  exposed 
Cliffe's  exaggerations  and  insincerities  neatly,  and  per- 
haps decisively.  At  any  rate,  he  hummed  a  cheerful 
tune  as  he  thought  of  it. 

Then  suddenly  and  incongruously  a  recollection  oc- 
curred to  him. 

"Kitty,  do  you  know  that  I  had  a  letter  from  your 
mother,  this  morning?" 

"Had  you?"  said  Kitty,  turning  to  him  with  reluc- 
tance.    "I  suppose  she  wanted  some  money." 

"She  did.     She  says  she  is  very  hard  up.     If  I  cared 
to  use  it,  I  have  an  easy  reply." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  might  say, '  D n  it,  we  are,  too!* " 

Kitty  laughed  imeasily. 

"Don't  begin  to  talk  money  matters  now,  William, 
please." 

"No,  dear,  I  won't.     But  we  shall  really  have  to 
draw  in." 

"You  will  pay  so  many  debts!"  said  Kitty,  frowning. 

Ashe  went  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

206 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"That's  my  extravagance,  isn't  it  ?  I  assure  you  I  go 
on  the  most  approved  principles.  I  divide  our  available 
money  among  the  greatest  number  of  hvmgry  claimants 
it  will  stretch  to.  But,  after  all,  it  goes  a  beggarly  short 
way." 

"I  know  mother  will  think  my  diamond  crescent  a 
horrible  extravagance,"  said  Kitty,  pouting.  "  But  you 
are  the  only  son,  William,  and  we  must  behave  like  other 
people." 

"Dear,  don't  trouble  your  little  head,"  he  said;  "I'll 
manage  it,  somehow." 

Indeed,  he  knew  very  well  that  he  could  never  bring 
his  own  indolent  and  easy-going  temper  in  such  matters 
to  face  any  real  struggle  with  Kitty  over  money.  He 
must  go  to  his  mother,  who  now — his  father  being  a 
hopeless  invalid — managed  the  estates  with  his  own  and 
the  agent's  help.  It  was,  of  course,  right  that  she  should 
preach  to  Kitty  a  little;  but  she  would  be  sensible  and 
help  them  out.  After  all,  there  was  plenty  of  money. 
Why  shouldn't  Kitty  spend  it? 

Any  one  who  knew  him  well  might  have  observed  a 
curious  contrast  between  his  private  laxity  in  these 
matters  and  the  strictness  of  his  public  practice.  He 
was  scruple  and  delicacy  itself  in  all  financial  matters 
that  touched  his  public  life — directorships,  investments, 
and  the  like,  no  less  than  in  all  that  concerned  interest 
and  patronage.  He  would  have  been  a  bold  man  who 
had  dared  to  propose  to  William  Ashe  any  expedient 
whatever  by  which  his  public  place  might  serve  his 
private  gain.  His  proud  and  fastidious  integrity,  in- 
deed, was  one  of  the  sources  of  his  growing  power.  But 
as  to  private  debts — and  the  tradesmen  to  whom  they 

207 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

were  owed — his  standards  were  still  essentially  those  of 
the  Whigs  from  whom  he  descended,  of  Fox,  the  all-in- 
debted, or  of  Melbourne,  who  has  left  an  amusing  dis- 
quisition on  the  art  of  dividing  a  few  loaves  and  fishes  in 
the  shape  of  bank-notes  among  a  multitude  of  creditors. 

Not  that  affairs  were  as  yet  very  bad.  Far  from  it. 
But  there  was  little  to  spars  for  Madame  d'Estrees,  who 
ought,  indeed,  to  want  nothing;  and  Ashe  was  vaguely 
meditating  his  reply  to  that  lady  when  a  face  in  a  car- 
riage near  them,  which  was  trying  to  enter  the  line, 
caught  his  attention. 

"Mary!"  he  said,  "h,  la  Sir  Joshua  —  and  mother. 
They  don't  sefe  us.  Query,  will  Cliffe  take  the  leap  to- 
night? Mother  reports  a  decided  increase  of  ardor  on 
his  part.     Sorry  you  don't  approve  of  it,  darling!" 

"It's  just  like  lighting  a  lamp  to  put  it  out — that's 
all!"  said  Kitty,  with  vivacity.  "The  man  who  marries 
Mary  is  done  for." 

"  Not  at  all.  Mary's  money  will  give  him  the  pedestal 
he  wants,  and  trust  Cliff e  to  take  care  of  his  own  individ- 
uality afterwards!  Now,  if  you'll  transfer  your  alarms 
to  Mary,  I'm  with  you!" 

"Oh!  of  course  he'll  be  unkind  to  her.  She  may  lay 
her  account  for  that.  But  it's  the  marrying  her!"  And 
Kitty's  upper-lip  curled  mider  a  slow  disdain. 

William  laughed  out. 

"Kitty,  really! — you  remind  me,  please,  of  Miss  Jane 
Taylor: 

"  '  I  did  not  think  there  could  be  found — a  Httle  heart  so  hard!* 

Mary  is  thirty;  she  would  like  to  be  married.  And 
why  not?     She'll  give  quite  as  good  as  she  gets." 

208 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Well,  she  won't  get  —  anything.  Geoffrey  Cliff e 
thinks  of  no  one  but  himself." 

Ashe's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"Oh,  well,  all  men  are  selfish — and  the  women  don't 
mind." 

"It  depends  on  how  it's  done,"  said  Kitty. 

Ashe  declared  that  Cliffe  was  just  an  ordinary  person, 
"I'homme  sensuel  moyen" — with  a  touch  of  genius. 
Except  for  that,  no  better  and  no  worse  than  other  peo- 
ple. What  then  ? — the  world  was  not  made  up  of  per- 
sons of  enormous  virtue  like  Lord  Althorp  and  Mr.  Glad- 
stone. If  Mary  wanted  him  for  a  husband,  and  could 
capture  him,  both,  in  his  opinion,  would  have  pretty 
nearly  got  their  deserts. 

Kitty,  however,  fell  into  a  reverie,  after  which  she  let 
him  see  a  face  of  the  same  startling  sweetness  as  she  had 
several  times  shown  him  of  late. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  be  nice  to  her  ?"  She  nestled  up 
to  him. 

"Bind  her  to  your  chariot  wheels,  madam!  You 
can!"  said  Ashe,  slipping  a  hand  round  hers. 

Kitty  pondered. 

"Well,  then,  I  won't  tell  her  that  I  know  he's  still  in 
love  with  the  Frenchwoman.  But  it's  on  the  tip  of  my 
tongue." 

"  Heavens!"  cried  Ashe.     "The  Vicomtesse  D ,  the 

lady  of  the  poems?     But  she's  dead!     I  thought  that 
was  over  long  ago." 

Kitty  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  said,  with  low- 
voiced  emphasis: 

"That  any  one  could  write  those  poems,  and  then 
think  of  Mary!" 

209 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Yes,  the  poems  were  fine,"  said  Ashe,  "but  make- 
believe!" 

Kitty  protested  indignantly.  Ashe  bantered  her  a 
little  on  being  one  of  the  women  who  were  the  making  of 
Cliffe. 

"Say  what  you  like!"  she  said,  drawing  a  quick 
breath.  "But,  often  and  often,  he  says  divine  things — 
divinely!  I  feel  them  there!"  And  she  lifted  both 
hands  to  her  breast  with  an  impulsive  gesture. 

"Goddess!"  said  Ashe,  kissing  her  hand  because 
enthusiasm  became  her  so  well.  "And  to  think  that  I 
should  have  dared  to  roast  the  divine  one  in  a  Times 
letter  this  morning!" 

The  hall  and  staircase  of  Yorkshire  House  were 
already  filled  with  a  motley  and  magnificent  crowd  when 
Ashe  and  Kitty  arrived.  Kitty,  still  shrouded  in  her 
cloak,  pushed  her  way  through,  exchanging  greetings 
with  friends,  shrieking  a  little  now  and  then  for  the  safety 
of  her  bow  and  quiver,  her  face  flushed  with  pleasure  and 
excitement.  Then  she  disappeared  into  the  cloak-room, 
and  Ashe  was  left  to  wonder  how  he  was  going  to  endure 
his  robes  through  the  heat  of  the  evening,  and  to  ex- 
change a  laughing  remark  or  two  with  the  Parliamentary 
Secretary  to  the  Admiralty,  into  whose  company  he  had 
fallen. 

"What  are  we  doing  it  for?"  he  asked  the  young 
man,  whose  thin  person  v/as  well  set  off  by  a  Tudor 
dress. 

"Oh,  don't  be  superior!"  said  the  other.  "I'm  going 
to  enjoy  myself  like  a  school-boy!" 

And  that,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  the  attitude  of  most  of 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

the  people  present.  And  not  only  of  the  younger 
members  of  the  dazzling  company.  What  struck  Ashe 
particularly,  as  he  mingled  with  the  crowd,  was  the 
alacrity  of  the  elder  men.  Here  was  a  famous  lawyer 
already  nearing  the  seventies,  in  the  Lord  Chancellor's 
garb  of  a  great  ancestor;  here  an  ex-Viceroy  of  Ireland 
with  a  son  in  the  government,  magnificent  in  an  Eliza- 
bethan dress,  his  fair  bushy  hair  and  reddish  beard  shin- 
ing above  a  doublet  on  which  glittered  a  jewel  given  to 
the  founder  of  his  house  by  Elizabeth's  own  hand;  next 
to  him,  a  white-haired  judge  in  the  robes  of  Judge 
Gascoyne;  a  peer,  no  younger,  at  his  side,  in  the  red  and 
blue  of  Mazarin:  and  showing  each  and  all  in  their  gay 
complacent  looks  a  clear  revival  of  that  former  masculine 
delight  in  splendid  clothes  which  came  so  strangely  to  an 
end  with  that  older  world  on  the  ruins  of  which  Napoleon 
rose.  So  with  the  elder  women.  For  this  night  they 
were  young  again.  They  had  been  free  to  choose  from 
all  the  ages  a  dress  that  suited  them;  and  the  result  of 
this  renewal  of  a  long-relinquished  eagerness  had  been 
in  many  cases  to  call  back  a  bygone  self,  and  the  tones 
and  gestures  of  those  years  when  beauty  is  its  own  chief 
care. 

As  for  the  young  men,  the  young  women,  and  the 
girls,  the  zest  and  pleasure  of  the  show  shone  in  their 
eyes  and  movements,  and  spread  through  the  hall  and 
up  the  crowded  staircase,  like  a  warm,  contagious 
atmosphere.  At  all  times,  indeed,  and  in  all  countries, 
an  aristocracy  has  been  capable  of  this  sheer  delight 
in  its  own  splendor,  wealth,  good  looks,  and  accumu- 
lated treasure;  whether  in  the  Venice  that  Petrarch 
visited;    or  in   the   Rome   of   the   Renaissance   popes; 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

in  the  Versailles  of  the  Grand  Monarque;  or  in  the 
Florence  of  to-day,  which  still  at  moments  of  festa 
reproduces  in  its  midst  all  the  costumes  of  the  Cinque- 
cento. 

In  this  English  case  there  was  less  dignity  than  there 
would  have  been  in  a  Latin  country,  and  more  personal 
beauty;  less  grace,  perhaps,  and  yet  a  something  richer 
and  more  romantic. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  stood  a  marquis  in  a  dress 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  a  Gonzaga  who  had  sat 
for  Titian;  beside  him  a  fair-haired  wife  in  the  white 
satin  and  pearls  of  Henrietta  Maria ;  while  up  the  marble 
stairs,  watched  by  a  laughing  multitude  above,  streamed 
Gainsborough  girls  and  Reynolds  women,  women  from 
the  courts  of  Elizabeth,  or  Henri  Quatre,  of  Maria 
Theresa,  or  Marie  Antoinette,  the  figures  of  Holbein  and 
Vandyck,  Florentines  of  the  Renaissance,  the  youths  of 
Carpaccio,  the  beauties  of  Titian  and  Veronese. 

"  Kitty,  make  haste!"  cried  a  voice  in  front,  as  Kitty 
began  to  mount  the  stairs.  "Your  quadrille  is  just 
called." 

Kitty  smiled  and  nodded,  but  did  not  hurry  her  pace 
by  a  second.  The  staircase  was  not  so  full  as  it  had 
been,  and  she  knew  well  as  she  mounted  it,  her  slender 
figure  drawn  to  its  full  height,  her  eyes  flashing  greeting 
and  challenge  to  those  in  the  gallery,  the  diamond  genius 
on  her  spear  glittering  above  her,  that  she  held  the  stage, 
and  that  the  play  would  not  begin  without  her. 

And  indeed  her  dress,  her  brilliance,  and  her  beauty 
let  loose  a  hum  of  conversation — not  always  friendly. 

"What  is  she?"  "Oh,  something  mythological! 
She's  in  the  next  quadrille."      "My  dear,  she's  Diana! 

212 


Tlie    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

Look  at  her  bow  and  quiver,  and  the  moon  in  her  hair." 
"Very  incorrect! — she  ought  to  have  the  towered 
crown!"  "Absurd,  such  a  httle  thing  to  attempt 
Diana!     I'd  back  Actseon!" 

The  latter  remark  was  spoken  in  the  ear  of  Louis 
Harman,  who  stood  in  the  gallery  looking  down.  But 
riarman  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't  understand.  She's  not  Greek,  of  course; 
but  she's  fairyland.  A  child  of  the  Renaissance,  dream- 
ing in  a  wood,  would  have  seen  Artemis  so — dressed  up 
and  glittering,  and  fantastic  —  as  the  Florentines  saw 
Venus.  Small,  too,  like  the  fairies! — slipping  through 
the  leaves ;  small  hounds,  with  jewelled  collars,  following 
her!" 

He  smiled  at  his  own  fancy,  still  watching  Kitty  with 
his  painter's  eyes. 

"She  has  seen  a  French  print  somewhere,"  said  Cliffe, 
who  stood  close  by.  "More  Versailles  in  it  than  fairy- 
land, I  think!" 

"It  is  she  that  is  fairyland,"  said  Harman,  still  fasci- 
nated. 

Cliffe's  expression  showed  the  sarcasm  of  his  thought. 
Fairy,  perhaps! — with  the  touch  of  malice  and  inhuman 
mischief  that  all  tradition  attributes  to  the  little  people. 
Why,  after  that  first  meeting,  when  the  conversation  of  a 
few  minutes  had  almost  swept  them  into  the  deepest 
waters  of  intimacy,  had  she  slighted  him  so,  in  other 
drawing-rooms  and  on  other  occasions  .f"  She  had  actu- 
ally iieglected  and  avoided  him — after  having  dared  to 
speak  to  him  of  his  secret!  And  now  Ashe's  letter  of  the 
morning  had  kindled  afresh  his  sense  of  rancor  against 
a  pair  of  people,  too  prosperous  and  too  arrogant.     The 

213 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

stroke  in  the  Times  had,  he  knew,  gone  home;  his 
vanity  writhed  under  it,  and  the  wish  to  strike  back 
tormented  him,  as  he  watched  Ashe  mounting  behind 
his  wife,  so  handsome,  careless,  and  urbane,  his  jewelled 
cap  dangling  in  his  hand. 

The  quadrille  of  gods  and  goddesses  was  over.  Kitty 
had  been  dancing  with  a  fine  clumsy  Mars,  in  ordinary 
life  an  honest  soldier  and  deer-stalker,  the  heir  to  a 
Scotch  dukedom;  having  as  her  vis-a-vis  Madeleine  Alcot 
— as  the  Flora  of  Botticelli's  "  Spring  " — and  slim  as  Mer- 
cury in  fantastic  Renaissance  armor.  All  the  divinities 
of  the  Pantheon,  indeed,  were  there,  but  in  Gallicized  or 
Italianate  form;  scarcely  a  touch  of  the  true  antique, 
save  in  the  case  of  one  beautiful  girl  who  wore  a  Juno 
dress  of  white  whereof  the  clinging  folds  had  been  ar- 
ranged for  her  by  a  young  Netherlands  painter,  Mr. 
Alma  Tadema,  then  newly  settled  in  this  country. 
Kitty  at  first  envied  her;  then  decided  that  she  herself 
could  have  made  no  effect  in  such  a  gown,  and  threw 
her  the  praises  of  indifference. 

When,  to  Kitty's  sharp  regret,  the  music  stopped  and 
the  glittering  crew  of  immortals  melted  into  the  crowd, 
she  found  behind  her  a  row  of  dancers  waiting  for  the 
quadrille  which  was  to  follow.  This  was  to  consist  en- 
tirely of  English  pictures  revived — Reynolds,  Gains- 
borough, and  Romney — and  to  be  danced  by  those  for 
whose  families  they  had  been  originally  painted.  As 
she  drew  back,  looking  eagerly  to  right  and  left,  she  came 
across  Mary  Lyster.  Mary  wore  her  hair  high  and 
powdered  —  a  black  silk  scarf  over  white  satin,  and  a 
blue  sash. 

214 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Awfully  becoming!"  said  Kitty,  nodding  to  her. 
"Who  are  you?" 

"My  great -great  aunt!"  said  Mary,  courtesying. 
"You,  I  see,  go  even  farther  back." 

" Isn't  it  fun ?"  said  Kitty,  pausing  beside  her.  "Have 
you  seen  William?  Poor  dear!  he's  so  hot.  How  do 
you  do?"  This  last  careless  greeting  was  addressed  to 
Cliffe,  whom  she  now  perceived  standing  behind  Mary. 

CUffe  bowed  stiffly. 

"Excuse  me.  I  did  not  see  you.  I  was  absorbed 
in  your  dress.  You  are  Artemis,  I  see — with  addi- 
tions." 

"Oh!  I  am  an  'article  de  Paris,'"  said  Kitty.  "But 
it  seems  odd  that  some  people  should  take  me  for  Joan  of 
Arc."  Then  she  turned  to  Mary.  "I  think  your  dress 
is  quite  lovely!"  she  said,  in  that  warm,  shy  voice  she 
rarely  used  except  for  a  few  intimates,  and  had  never  yet 
been  known  to  waste  on  Mary.  "Don't  you  admire  it 
enormously,  Mr.  Cliffe?" 

"Enormously,"  said  Cliffe,  puUing  at  his  mustache. 
"But  by  now  my  compliments  are  stale." 

"Is  he  cross  about  William's  letter?"  thought  Kitty. 
"Well,  let's  leave  them  to  themselves." 

Then,  as  she  passed  him,  something  in  the  silent 
personality  of  the  man  arrested  her.  She  could  not 
forbear  a  look  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  "Are  you — 
Oh!  of  course,  I  remember — "  for  she  had  recognized 
the  dress  and  cap  of  the  Spanish  grandee. 

Cliffe  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  the  harsh  sig- 
nificance of  his  face  revived  in  her  the  excitable  interest 
she  had  felt  in  him  on  the  day  of  his  luncheon  in  Hill 
Street;  an  interest  since  effaced  and  dispersed,  under  the 

215 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

influence  of  that  serenity  and  home  peace  which  had 
shone  upon  her  since  that  very  day. 

"I  should  apologize,  no  doubt,  for  not  taking  your 
advice,"  he  said,  looking  her  in  the  eyes.  Their  expres- 
sion, half  bitter,  half  insolent,  reminded  her. 

"Did  I  give  you  any  advice?"  Kitty  wrinkled  up  her 
white  brows.     "I  don't  recollect." 

Mary  looked  at  her  sharply,  suspiciously.  Kitty, 
quite  conscious  of  the  look,  was  straightway  pricked  by 
an  elfish  curiosity.  Could  she  carry  him  off — trouble 
Mary's  possession  there  and  then?  She  believed  she 
could.  She  was  well  aware  of  a  certain  relation  between 
herself  and  Cliffe,  if,  at  least,  she  chose  to  develop  it. 
Should  she?  Her  vanity  insisted  that  Mary  could  not 
prevent  it. 

However,  she  restrained  herself  and  moved  on. 
Presently  looking  back,  she  saw  them  still  together, 
Cliffe  leaning  against  the  pedestal  of  a  bust,  Mary  beside 
him.  There  was  an  animation  in  her  eyes,  a  rose  of 
pleasure  on  her  cheek  which  stirred  In  Kitty  a  queer, 
sudden  sympathy.  "I  am  a  little  beast!"  she  said  to 
herself.     "Why  shouldn't  she  be  happy?" 

Then,  perceiving  Lady  Tranmore  at  the  end  of  the 
ballroom,  she  made  her  way  thither  surrounded  by  a 
motley  crowd  of  friends.  She  walked  as  though  on  air,* 
"raining  influence."  And  as  Lady  Tranmore  caught 
the  glitter  of  the  diamond  crescent,  and  beheld  the  small 
divinity  beneath  it,  she,  too,  smiled  with  pleasure,  like 
the  other  spectators  on  Kitty's  march.  The  dress  was 
monstrously  costly.  She  knew  that.  But  she  forgot  the 
inroad  on  William's  pocket,  and  remembered  only  to  be 
proud  of  William's  wife.     Since  the  Parhams'  party, 

216 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

indeed,  the  unlooked-for  submission  of  Kitty,  and  the 
clearing  of  William's  prospects.  Lady  Tranmore  had 
been  sweetness  itself  to  her  daughter-in-law. 

But  her  fine  face  and  brow  were  none  the  less  inclined 
to  frown.  She  herself  as  Katharine  of  Aragon  would 
have  shed  a  dignity  on  any  scene,  but  she  was  in  no 
sympathy  with  what  she  beheld. 

"We  shall  soon  all  of  us  be  ashamed  of  this  kind  of 
thing,"  she  declared  to  Kitty.  "Just  as  people  now  are 
beginning  to  be  ashamed  of  enormous  houses  and  troops 
of  servants." 

"No,  please!  Only  bored  with  them!"  said  Kitty. 
"There  are  so  many  other  ways  now  of  amusing  your- 
self—that's all." 

"Well,  this  way  will  die  out,"  said  Lady  Tranmore. 
"The  cost  of  it  is  too  scandalous — people's  consciences 
prick  them." 

Kitty  vowed  she  did  not  believe  there  was  a  con- 
science in  the  room;  and  then,  as  the  music  struck  up, 
she  carried  off  her  companion  to  some  steps  overlooking 
the  great  marble  gallery,  where  they  had  a  better  view  of 
the  two  lines  of  dancers. 

It  is  said  that  as  a  nation  the  English  have  no  gift  for 
pageants.  Yet  every  now  and  then — as  no  doubt  in  the 
Elizabethan  mask — they  show  a  strange  felicity  in  the 
art.  Certainly  the  dance  that  followed  would  have  been 
difficult  to  surpass  even  in  the  ripe  days  and  mother- 
lands of  pageantry.  To  the  left,  a  long  line,  consisting 
mainly  of  young  girls  in  their  first  bloom,  dressed  as 
Gainsborough  and  his  great  contemporaries  delighted  to 
paint  these  flowers  of  England — the  folds  of  plain  white 
muslin  crossed  over  the  young  breast,  a  black  velvet  at 

217 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

the  throat,  a  rose  in  the  hair,  the  simple  skirt  showing 
the  small  pointed  feet,  and  sometimes  a  broad  sash  de- 
fining the  slender  waist.  Here  were  Stanleys,  Howards, 
Percys,  Villierses,  Butlers,  Osbornes — soft  slips  of  girls 
bearing  the  names  of  England's  rough  and  turbulent 
youth,  bearing  themselves  to-night  with  a  shy  or  laugh- 
ing dignity,  as  though  the  touch  of  history  and  romance 
were  on  them.  And  facing  them,  the  youths  of  the  same 
families,  no  less  handsome  than  their  sisters  and  brides — 
in  Romney's  blue  coats,  or  the  splendid  red  of  Reynolds 
and  Gainsborough. 

To  and  fro  swayed  the  dancers,  under  the  innumer- 
able candles  that  filled  the  arched  roof  and  upper  walls 
of  the  ballroom;  and  each  time  the  lines  parted  they 
disclosed  at  the  farther  end  another  pageant,  to  which 
that  of  the  dance  was  in  truth  subordinate — a  dais  hung 
with  blue  and  silver,  and  upon  it  a  royal  lady  whose 
beauty,  then  in  its  first  bloom,  has  been  a  national 
possession,  since  as  the  "  sea-king's  daughter  "  she  brought 
it  in  dowry  to  her  adopted  country.  To-night  she  blazed 
in  jewels  as  a  Valois  queen,  with  her  court  around  her, 
and  as  the  dancers  receded,  each  youth  and  maiden  seemed 
instinctively  to  turn  towards  her  as  roses  to  the  sun. 

"Oh,  beautiful,  beautiful  world!"  said  Kitty  to  her- 
self, in  an  ecstasy,  pressing  her  small  hands  together; 
"how  I  love  you! — love  you!" 

Meanwhile  Darrell  and  Harm  an  stood  side  by  side 
near  the  doorway  of  the  ballroom,  looking  in  when  the 
crowd  allowed. 

"  A  strange  sight,"  said  Harman.  "  Perhaps  they  take 
it  too  seriously." 

218 


The   Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Ah!  that  is  our  EngHsh  upper  class,"  said  Darrell, 
with  a  sneer.  "Is  there  anything  they  take  Hghtly? — 
par  exemple  I  It  seems  to  me  they  carry  off  this  amuse- 
ment better  than  most.  They  may  be  stupid,  but  they 
are  good-looking.  I  say,  Ashe  " — he  turned  towards  the 
new-comer  who  had  just  sauntered  up  to  them — "on 
this  exceptional  occasion,  is  it  allowed  to  congratulate 
you  on  Lady  Kitty's  gown?" 

For  Kitty,  raised  upon  her  step,  was  at  the  moment  in 
full  view. 

Ashe  made  some  slight  reply,  the  slightest  of  which 
indeed  annoyed  the  thin-skinned  and  morbid  Darrell, 
always  on  the  lookout  for  affronts.  But  Louis  Harman, 
who  happened  to  observe  the  Under-Secretary's  glance 
at  his  wife,  said  to  himself,  "  By  George!  that  queer  mar- 
riage is  turning  out  well,  after  all." 

The  Tudor  and  Marie  Antoinette  quadrilles  had  been 
danced.     There  was  a  rumor  of  supper  in  the  air. 

"William!"  said  Kitty,  in  his  ear,  as  she  came  across 
him  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms,  "Lord  Hubert  takes 
me  in  to  supper.  Poor  me!"  She  made  an  extrava- 
gant face  of  self-pity  and  swept  on.  Lord  Hubert  was 
one  of  the  sons  of  the  house,  a  stupid  and  inarticulate 
guardsman,  Kitty's  butt  and  detestation.  Ashe  smiled 
to  himself  over  her  fate,  and  went  back  to  the  ballroom 
in  search  of  his  own  lady. 

Meanwhile  Kitty  paused  in  the  next  drawing-room, 
and  dismissed  her  following. 

"I  promised  to  wait  here  for  Lord  Hubert,"  she  said. 
"You  go  on,  or  you'll  get  no  tables." 

And  she  waved  them  peremptorily  away.  The  draw- 
is  219 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ing-room,  one  of  a  suite  which  looked  on  the  garden, 
thinned  temporarily.  In  a  happy  fatigue,  Kitty  leaned 
dreamily  over  the  ledge  of  one  of  the  open  windows, 
looking  at  the  illuminated  space  below  her.  Amid  the 
colored  lights,  figures  of  dream  and  fantasy  walked  up 
and  down.  In  the  midst  flashed  a  flame-colored  foun- 
tain. The  sounds  of  a  Strauss  waltz  floated  in  the  air. 
And  beyond  the  garden  and  its  trees  rose  the  dull  roar 
of  London. 

A  silk  curtain  floated  out  into  the  room  under  the 
westerly  breeze,  then,  returning,  sheathed  Kitty  in  its 
folds.  She  stood  there  hidden,  amusing  herself  like  a 
child  with  the  thought  of  startling  that  great  heavy 
goose.  Lord  Hubert. 

Suddenly  a  pair  of  voices  that  she  knew  caught  her 
ear.  Two  persons,  passing  through,  lingered,  without 
perceiving  her.  Kitty,  after  a  first  movement  of  self- 
disclosure,  caught  her  own  name  and  stood  motion- 
less. 

"Well,  of  course  you  ve  heard  that  we  got  through," 
said  Lady  Parham.  "For  once  Lady  Kitty  behaved 
herself!" 

"You  were  lucky!"  said  Mary  Lyster.  "Lady  Tran- 
more  was  dreadfully  anxious — " 

"Lest  she  should  cut  us  at  the  last?"  cried  Lady 
Parham.  "Well,  of  course,  Lady  Kitty  is  'capable  de 
tout.'"  She  laughed.  "But  perhaps  as  you  are  a 
cousin  I  oughtn't  to  say  these  things." 

"Oh,  say  what  you  like,"  said  Mary.  "I  am  no 
friend  of  Kitty's,  and  never  pretended  to  be." 

Lady  Parham  came  closer,  apparently,  and  said, 
confidentially:  "What  on  earth  made  that  man  marry 

220 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

her?     He  might  have  married  anybody.     She  had  no 
money,  and  worse  than  no  position." 

"She  worked  upon  his  pity,  of  course,  a  good  deal.  I 
saw  them  in  the  early  days  at  Grosville  Park.  She 
played  her  cards  very  cleverly.  And  then,  it  was  just 
the  right  moment.  Lady  Tranmore  had  been  urging 
him  to  marry." 

'   "Well,  of  course,"  said  Lady  Parham,   "there's  no 
denying  the  beauty." 

"You  think  so?"  said  Mary,  as  though  in  wonder. 
"Well,  I  never  could  see  it.  And  now  she  has  so  much 
gone  off." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  Many  people  think  her  the 
star  to-night.     Mr.  Cliff e,  I  am  told,  admires  her." 

Kitty  could  not  see  how  the  eyes  of  the  speaker,  under 
a  Sir  Joshua  turban,  studied  the  countenance  of  Miss 
Lyster,  as  she  threw  out  the  words. 

Mary  laughed. 

"Poor  Kitty!  She  tried  to  flirt  with  him  long  ago — 
just  after  she  arrived  in  London,  fresh  out  of  the  con- 
vent. It  was  so  funny!  He  told  me  afterwards  he 
never  was  so  embarrassed  in  his  life — this  baby  making 
eyes  at  him!     And  now— oh  no!" 

"Why  not  now?  Lady  Kitty's  very  much  the  rage, 
and  Mr.  Cliffe  likes  notoriety." 

"But  a  notoriety  with  —  well,  with  some  style,  some 
distinction!     Kitty's  sort  is  so  cheap  and  silly." 

"Ah,  well,  she's  not  to  be  despised,"  said  Lady  Par- 
ham.  "  She's  as  clever  as  she  can  be.  But  her  husband 
will  have  to  keep  her  in  order." 

"Can  he?"  said  Mary.  "Won't  she  always  be  in  his 
way?" 

221 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Always,  I  should  think.  But  he  must  have  known 
what  he  was  about.  Why  didn't  his  mother  interfere  ? 
Such  a  family! — such  a  history!" 

"She  did  interfere,"  said  Mary.  "We  all  did  our 
best" — she  dropped  her  voice — "I  know  I  did.  But  it 
was  no  use.  If  men  like  spoiled  children  they  must  have 
them,  I  suppose.  Let's  hope  he'll  learn  how  to  manage 
her.  Shall  we  go  on  ?  I  promised  to  meet  my  supper.- 
partner  in  the  library." 

They  moved  away. 

For  some  minutes  Kitty  stood  looking  out,  motionless, 
but  the  beating  of  her  heart  choked  her.  Strange  an- 
cestral things — things  of  evil — things  of  passion — had 
suddenly  awoke,  as  it  were,  from  sleep  in  the  depths 
of  her  being,  and  rushed  upon  the  citadel  of  her  life. 
A  change  had  passed  over  her  from  head  to  foot.  Her 
veins  ran  fire. 

At  that  moment,  turning  round,  she  saw  Geoffrey 
Cliff e  enter  the  room  in  which  she  stood.  With  an  im- 
petuous movement  she  approached  him. 

"Take  me  down  to  supper,  Mr.  Cliffe.  I  can't  wait 
for  Lord  Hubert  any  more,  I'm  so  hungry!" 

"Enchanted!"  said  Cliffe,  the  color  leaping  into  his 
tanned  face  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  goddess.  "  But 
I  came  to  find — " 

"Miss  Lyster?  Oh,  she  is  gone  in  with  Mr.  Dar- 
rell.  Come  with  me.  I  have  a  ticket  for  the  reserved 
tent.  We  shall  have  a  delicious  corner  to  our- 
selves." 

And  she  took  from  her  glove  the  little  coveted  paste- 
board, which — handed  about  in  secret  to  a  few  intimates 

222 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

of  the  house — gave  access  to  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of 
the  evening. 

Cliffe  wavered.  Then  his  vanity  succumbed.  A  few 
minutes  later  the  supper  guests  in  the  tent  of  the  Hite 
saw  the  entrance  of  a  darkly  splendid  Duke  of  Alva,  with 
a  little  sandalled  goddess  ill  compact,  it  seemed,  of 
ivory  and  fire,  on  his  arm. 


XI 


THE  spring  freshness  of  London  had  long  since  de- 
parted. A  crowded  season;  much  animation  in 
Parliament,  where  the  government,  to  its  own  amaze- 
ment, had  rather  gained  than  lost  ground;  industrial 
trouble  at  home,  and  foreign  complications  abroad;  and 
in  London  the  steady  growth  of  a  new  plutocracy,  the 
result,  so  far,  of  American  wealth  and  American  brides. 
In  the  first  week  of  July,  the  outward  things  of  the  mo- 
ment might  have  been  thus  summed  up  by  any  careful 
observer. 

On  a  certain  Tuesday  night,  the  debate  on  a  private 
member's  bill  unexpectedly  collapsed,  and  the  House 
rose  early.  Ashe  left  the  House  with  his  secretary,  but 
parted  from  him  at  the  corner  of  Birdcage  Walk,  and 
crossed  the  park  alone.  He  meant  to  join  Kitty  at  a 
party  in  Piccadilly ;  there  was  just  time  to  go  home  and 
dress;  and  he  walked  at  a  quick  pace. 

Two  members  sitting  on  the  same  side  of  the  House 
with  himself  were  also  going  home.  One  of  them  noticed 
the  Under-Secretary. 

"A  very  ineffective  statement  Ashe  made  to-night — 
don't  you  think  so?"  he  said  to  his  companion. 

"Very!  Really,  if  the  government  can't  take  up  a 
stronger  line,  the  general  public  will  begin  to  think 
there's  something  in  it." 

224 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Oh,  if  you  only  shriek  long  enough  and  sharp  enough 
in  England  something's  sure  to  come  of  it.  Cliffe  and 
his  group  have  been  playing  a  very  shrewd  game.  The 
government  will  get  their  agreement  approved  all  right, 
but  Cliffe  has  certainly  made  some  people  on  our  side 
uneasy.     However — " 

"However,  what?"  said  the  other,  after  a  moment. 

"  I  wish  I  thought  that  were  the  only  reason  for  Ashe's 
change  of  tone,"  said  the  first  speaker,  slowly, 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

The  two  were  intimate  personal  friends,  belonging, 
moreover,  to  a  group  of  evangelical  families  well  known 
in  English  life ;  but  even  so,  the  answer  came  with  re- 
luctance: 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  not  very  easy  to  grapple  in  public 
with  the  man  whose  name  all  smart  London  happens  to 
be  coupling  with  that  of  your  wife!" 

"I  say" — the  other  stood  still,  in  genuine  consterna- 
tion and  distress — "you  don't  mean  to  say  that  there's 
that  in  it!" 

"You  notice  that  the  difference  is  not  in  what  Ashe 
says,  but  in  how  he  says  it.  He  avoids  all  personal 
collision  with  Cliffe.  The  government  stick  to  their 
case,  but  Ashe  mentions  everybody  but  Cliffe,  and  con- 
futes all  arguments  but  his.  And  meanwhile,  of  course, 
the  truth  is  that  Cliffe  is  the  head  and  front  of  the  cam- 
paign, and  if  he  threw  up  to-morrow,  everything  would 
quiet  down." 

"  And  Lady  Kitty  is  flirting  with  him  at  this  particular 
moment  ?  Damned  bad  taste  and  bad  feeling,  to  say  the 
least  of  it!" 

"You  won't  find  one  ot  the  Bristol  lot  consider  that 
225 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

kind  of  thing  when  their  blood  is  up!"  said  the  other. 
"You  remember  the  tales  of  old  Lord  Blackwater?" 

"But  is  there  really  any  truth  in  it?  Or  is  it  mere 
gossip?" 

"Well,  I  hear  that  the  behavior  of  both  of  them  at 
Grosville  Park  last  week  was  such  that  Lady  Grosville 
vows  she  will  never  ask  either  of  them  again.  And  at 
Ascot,  at  Lord's,  the  opera,  Lady  Kitty  sits  with  him, 
talks  with  him,  walks  with  him,  the  whole  time,  and 
won't  look  at  any  one  else.  They  must  be  asked  to- 
gether or  neither  will  come — and  '  society,'  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  thinks  it  a  good  joke  and  is  always  making 
plans  to  throw  them  together." 

"Can't  Lady  Tranmore  do  anything?" 

"I  don't  know.  They  say  she  is  very  unhappy  about 
it.     Certainly  she  looks  ill  and  depressed." 

"And  Ashe?" 

His  companion  hesitated.  "I  don't  like  to  say  it, 
but,  of  course,  you  know  there  are  many  people  who  will 
tell  you  that  Ashe  doesn't  care  twopence  what  his  wife 
does  so  long  as  she  is  nice  to  him,  and  he  can  read  his 
books  and  carry  on  his  politics  as  he  pleases!" 

"Ashe  always  strikes  me  as  the  soul  of  honor,"  said 
the  other,  indignantly.  • 

"  Of  course — for  himself.  But  a  more  fatalist  believer 
in  liberty  than  Ashe  doesn't  exist — liberty  especially  to 
damn  yourself — if  you  must  and  will." 

"  It  would  be  hard  to  extend  that  doctrine  to  a  wife," 
said  the  other,  with  a  grave,  uncomfortable  laugh. 

Meanwhile  the  man  whose  affairs  they  had  been  discuss- 
ing walked  home,  wrapped  in  solitary  and  disagreeable 

226 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

thought.  As  he  neared  the  Marlborough  House  comer 
a  carriage  passed  him.  It  was  delayed  a  moment  by 
other  carriages,  and  as  it  halted  beside  him  Ashe  recog- 
nized Lady  M ,  the  hostess  of  the  fancy  ball,  and  a 

very  old  friend  of  his  parents.  He  took  off  his  hat.  The 
lady  within  recognized  him  and  inclined  slightly — very 
slightly  and  stiffly.     Ashe  started  a  little  and  walked  on. 

The  meeting  vividly  recalled  the  ball,  the  terminus 
a  quo  indeed  from  which  the  meditation  in  which  he  had 
been  plunged  since  entering  the  park  had  started.  Be- 
tween six  and  seven  weeks  ago,  was  it?  It  might  have 
been  a  century.  He  thought  of  Kitty  as  she  was  that 
night — -Kitty  pirouetting  in  her  glittering  dress,  or 
bending  over  the  boy,  or  holding  her  face  to  his  as  he 
kissed  her  on  the  stairs.  Never  since  had  she  shown 
him  the  smallest  glimpse  of  such  a  mood.  What  was 
wrong  with  her  and  with  himself?  Something,  since 
May,  had  turned  their  life  topsy-turvy,  and  it  seemed  to 
Ashe  that  in  the  general  unprofitable  rush  of  futile 
engagements  he  had  never  yet  had  time  to  stop  and  ask 
himself  what  it  might  be. 

Why,  at  any  rate,  was  he  in  this  chafing  irritation  and 
discomfort?  Why  could  he  not  deal  with  that  fellow 
Cliffe  as  he  deserved  ?  And  what  in  Heaven's  name  was 
the  reason  why  old  friends  like  Lady  M were  begin- 
ning to  look  at  him  coldly,  and  avoid  his  conversation  ? 

His  mother,  too!  He  gathered  that  quite  lately  there 
had  been  some  disagreeable  scene  between  her  and  Kitty. 
Kitty  had  resented  some  remonstrance  of  hers,  and  for 
some  days  now  they  had  not  met.  Nor  had  Ashe  seen 
his  mother  alone.  Did  she  also  avoid  him,  shrink  from 
speaking  out  her  real  mind  to  him  ? 

227 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Well,  it  was  all  monstrously  absurd! — a  great  coil 
about  nothing,  as  far  as  the  main  facts  were  concerned, 
although  the  annoyance  and  worry  of  the  thing  were 
indeed  becoming  serious.  Kitty  had  no  doubt  taken  a 
wild  liking  to  Geoffrey  Cliffc — 

"And,  by  George!"  said  Ashe,  pausing  in  his  walk, 
"she  warned  me." 

And  there  rose  in  his  memory  the  formal  garden  at 
Grosville  Park,  the  little  figure  at  his  side,  and  Kitty's 
franknesses — "I  shall  take  mad  fancies  for  people.  I 
sha'n't  be  able  to  help  it.  I  have  one  now,  for  Geoffrey 
Cliffe." 

He  smiled.  There  was  the  difiiculty!  If  only  the 
people  whose  envious  tongues  were  now  wagging  could 
see  Kitty  as  she  was,  could  understand  what  a  gulf  lay 
between  her  and  the  ordinary  "fast"  woman,  there 
would  be  an  end  of  this  silly,  ill-natured  talk.  Other 
women  might  be  of  the  earth  earthy.  Kitty  was  a  sprite, 
with  all  the  irresponsibility  of  such  incalculable  creat- 
ures. The  men  and  women — women  especially — who 
gossiped  and  lied  about  her,  who  sent  abominable  para- 
graphs to  scurrilous  papers  —  he  had  one  now  in  his 
pocket  which  had  reached  him  at  the  House  from  an 
anonymous  correspondent — spoke  out  of  their  own  vile 
experience,  judged  her  by  their  own  standards.  His 
mother,  at  any  rate  —  he  proudly  thought  —  ought  to 
know  better  than  to  be  misled  by  them  for  a  moment. 

At  the  same  time,  something  must  be  done.  It  could 
not  be  denied  that  Kitty  had  been  behaving  like  a 
romantic,  excitable  child  with  this  unscrupulous  man, 
whose  record  with  regard  to  women  was  probably  wholly 
unknown  to  her,  however  foolishly  she  might  idealize 

228 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

the  liaison  commemorated  in  his  poems.  What  had 
Kitty,  indeed,  been  doing  with  herself  this  six  weeks? 
Ashe  tried  to  recall  them  in  detail.  Ascot,  Lord's, 
innumerable  parties  in  London  and  in  the  country,  to 
some  of  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  accompany 
her,  owing  to  the  stress  of  Parliamentary  and  official 
work.  Grosville  Park,  for  instance — he  had  been  stopped 
at  the  last  moment  from  going  down  there  by  the 
arrival  of  some  important  foreign  news,  and  Kitty  had 
gone  alone.  She  had  reappeared  on  the  Monday,  pale 
and  furious,  saying  that  she  and  her  atmt  had  quarrelled, 
and  that  she  would  never  go  near  the  Grosvilles  either 
in  town  or  country  again.  She  had  not  volunteered  any 
further  explanation,  and  Ashe  had  refrained  from  in- 
quiry. There  were  in  him  certain  disgusts  and  disdains, 
belonging  to  his  general  epicurean  conception  of  exist- 
ence, which  not  even  his  love  for  Kitty  could  overcome. 
One  was  a  disdain  for  the  quarrels  of  women.  He  sup- 
posed they  were  inevitable;  he  saw,  by-the-way,  that 
Kitty  and  Lady  Parham  were  once  more  at  daggers 
drawn;  and  Kitty  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  Well,  it  was  her 
own  affair;  but  while  there  was  a  Greek  play,  or  a  Shake- 
speare sonnet,  or  even  a  Blue  Book  to  read,  who  could 
expect  him  to  listen? 

What  had  old  Lady  Grosville  been  about  ?  He  under- 
stood that  Cliffe  had  been  of  the  party.  And  Kitty 
must  have  done  something  to  bring  down  upon  her  the 
wrath  of  the  Puritanical  mistress  of  the  house. 

Well,  what  was  he  to  do  ?  It  was  now  July.  The 
session  would  last  certainly  till  the  middle  of  August, 
and  though  the  American  business  would  be  disposed  of 
directly,  there  was  fresh  trouble  in  the  Balkan  Peninsula, 

229 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

and  an  anxious  situation  in  Egypt.  Impossible  that  he 
should  think  of  leaving  his  post.  And  as  for  the  chance 
of  a  dissolution,  the  government  was  now  a  good  deal 
stronger  than  it  had  been  before  Easter— worse  luck! 

Of  course  he  ought  to  take  Kitty  away.  But  short  of 
resignation  how  was  it  to  be  done?  And  what,  even, 
would  resignation  do — supposing,  per  impossibile,  it  could 
be  thought  of — but  give  to  gnawing  gossip  a  bigger 
bone,  and  probably  irritate  Kitty  to  the  point  of  re- 
bellion ?  Yet  how  induce  her  to  go  with  any  one  else  ? 
Lady  Tranmore  was  out  of  the  question.  Margaret 
French,  perhaps? 

Then,  suddenly,  Ashe  was  assailed  by  an  inner  laughter, 
hollow  and  discomfortable.  Things  were  come  to  a 
pretty  pass  when  he  must  even  dream  of  resigning  be- 
cause a  man  whom  he  despised  would  haunt  his  house, 
and  absorb  the  company  of  his  wife;  when,  moreover,  he 
could  not  even  think  of  a  remedy  for  such  a  state  of 
things  without  falling  back  dismayed  from  the  cer- 
tainty of  Kitty's  temper  —  Kitty's  wild  and  furious 
temper. 

For  during  the  last  fortnight,  as  it  seemed  to  Ashe,  all 
the  winds  of  tempest  had  been  blowing  through  his  house. 
Himself,  the  servants,  even  Margaret,  even  the  child, 
had  all  suffered.  He  also  had  lost  his  temper  several 
times — such  a  thing  had  scarcely  happened  to  him  since 
his  childhood.  He  thought  of  it  as  of  a  kind  of  physical 
stain  or  weakness.  To  keep  an  even  and  stoical  mind, 
to  laugh  where  one  could  not  conquer — this  had  always 
seemed  to  him  the  first  condition  of  decent  existence. 
And  now  to  be  wrangling  over  an  expenditure,  an  en- 
gagement, a  letter,  the  merest  nothing — whether  it  was 

2.^0 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

a  fine  day  or  it  wasn't — could  anything  be  more  petty, 
degrading,  intolerable  ? 

He  vowed  that  this  should  stop.  Whatever  happen- 
ed, he  and  Kitty  should  not  degenerate  into  a  pair  of 
scolds — ^besmirch  their  life  with  quarrels  as  ugly  as  they 
were  silly.  He  would  wrestle  with  her,  his  beloved,  un- 
reasonable, foolish  Kitty;  he  ought,  of  course,  to  have 
done  so  before.  But  it  was  only  within  the  last  week  or 
so  that  the  horizon  had  suddenly  darkened — the  thing 
grown  serious.  And  now  this  beastly  paragraph!  But, 
after  all,  what  did  such  garbage  matter?  It  would  of 
course  be  a  comfort  to  thrash  the  editor.  But  our  mod- 
ern life  breeds  such  creatures,  and  they  have  to  be  borne. 

He  let  himself  into  a  silent  house.  His  letters  lay  on 
the  hall-table.  Among  them  was  a  handwriting  which 
arrested  him.  He  remembered,  yet  could  not  put  a 
name  to  it.  Then  he  turned  the  envelope.  "H'm. 
Lady  Grosville!"  He  read  it,  standing  there,  then 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  thinking  angrily  that  there 
seemed  to  be  a  good  many  fools  in  this  world  who  oc- 
cupied themselves  with  other  people's  business.  Ex- 
aggeration, of  course,  daminable  parti  pris !  When  did 
she  ever  see  Kitty  except  with  a  jaundiced  eye?  "I 
wonder  Kitty  condescends  to  go  to  the  woman's  house! 
She  must  know  that  everything  she  does  is  seen  there  en 
noir.     Pharisaical,  narrow-minded  Philistines!" 

The  letter  acted  as  a  tonic.  Ashe  was  positively 
grateful  to  the  "old  gorgon"  who  wrote  it.  He  ran 
up-stairs,  his  pulses  tingling  in  defence  of  Kitty.  He 
would  show  Lady  Grosville  that  she  could  not  write  to 
him,  at  any  rate,  in  that  strain,  with  impunity. 

231 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

He  took  a  candle  from  the  landing,  and  opened  his 
wife's  door  in  order  to  pass  through  her  room  to  his  own. 
As  he  did  so,  he  ran  against  Kitty's  maid,  Blanche,  who 
was  coming  out.  She  shrank  back  as  she  saw  him,  but 
not  before  the  light  of  his  candle  had  shone  full  upon 
her.  Her  face  was  disfigured  with  tears,  which  were, 
indeed,  still  running  down  her  cheeks. 

'"Why,  Blanche!"  he  said,  standing  still — then  in  the 
kind  voice  which  endeared  him  to  the  servants — "I  am 
afraid  your  brother  is  worse?" 

For  the  poor  brother  in  hospital  had  passed  through 
many  vicissitudes  since  his  operation,  and  the  little 
maid's  spirits  had  fluctuated  accordingly. 

"Oh  no,  sir — no,  sir!"  said  Blanche,  drying  her  eyes 
and  retreating  into  the  shadows  of  the  room,  where  only 
a  faint  flame  of  gas  was  burning.  "It's  not  that,  vsir, 
thank  you.  I  was  just  putting  away  her  ladyship's 
things,"  she  said,  inconsequently,  looking  round  the  room. 

"That  was  hardly  what  caused  the  tears,  was  it?" 
said  Ashe,  smiling.  "Is  there  anything  in  which  Lady 
Kitty  or  I  could  help  you?" 

The  girl,  who  had  always  seemed  to  him  on  excellent 
terms  with  Kitty,  gave  a  sudden  sob. 

"Thank  you,  sir;  I've  just  given  her  ladyship  warn- 
ing." 

"Indeed!"  said  Ashe,  gravely.  "I'm  sorry  for  that. 
I  thought  you  got  on  here  very  well." 

"I  used  to,  sir,  but  this  last  few  weeks  there's 
nothing  pleases  her  ladyship;  you  can't  do  anything 
right.  I'm  sure  I've  worked  my  hands  off.  But  I  can't 
do  any  more.  Perhaps  her  ladyship  will  find  some  one 
else  to  suit  her  better." 

232 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Didn't  her  ladyship  try  to  persuade  you  to  stay?" 

"Yes — but — I  gave  warning  once  before,  and  then  I 
stayed.  And  it's  no  good.  It  seems  as  if  you  must  do 
wrong.  And  I  don't  sleep,  sir.  It  gets  on  j^our  nerves  so. 
But  I  didn't  mean  to  complain.     Good-night,  sir." 

"Good-night.  Don't  sit  up  for  your  mistress.  You 
look  tired  out.     I'll  help  her." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  maid,  in  a  depressed  voice, 
and  went. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Ashe  mounted  the  staircase  of  a 
well-known  house  in  Piccadilly.  The  evening  party  was 
beginning  to  thin,  but  in  a  side  drawing-room  a  fine 
Austrian  band  was  playing  Strauss,  and  some  of  the 
intimates  of  the  house  were  dancing. 

Ashe  at  once  perceived  his  wife.  She  was  dancing 
with  a  clever  Cambridge  lad,  a  cousin  of  Madeleine  Al- 
cot's,  who  had  long  been  one  of  her  adorers.  And  so 
charming  was  the  spectacle,  so  exhilarating  were  the 
youth  and  beauty  of  the  pair,  that  Ashe  presently  sus- 
pected what  was  indeed  the  truth,  that  most  of  the  per- 
sons gathering  in  the  room  were  there  to  watch  Kitty 
dance,  rather  than  to  dance  themselves.  He  himself 
watched  her,  though  he  professed  to  be  talking  to  his 
hostess,  a  woman  of  middle  age,  with  honest  eyes  and  a 
brow  of  command. 

"It  is  a  delight  to  see  Lady  Kitty  dance,"  she  said  to 
him,  smiling.  "But  she  is  tired,  I  am  sure  she  wants 
the  country." 

"Like  my  boy,"  said  Ashe.  "I  wish  to  goodness 
they'd  both  go." 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  hard  to  leave  the  husband  toiling  in 
233 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

town!"  said  his  companion,  who,  as  the  daughter,  wife, 
and  mother  of  politicians,  had  had  a  long  experience  of 
official  life. 

Ashe  glanced  at  her — at  her  face  moulded  by  kind  and 
scrupulous  living — with  a  sudden  relief  from  tension. 
Clearly  no  gossip  had  reached  her.  He  lingered  beside 
her,  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  talking  to  her.  But  their 
tete-a-tete  Was  soon  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  Lady 
Parham,  with  a  daughter — a  slim  and  silent  girl,  to 
whom,  it  was  whispered,  her  mother  wasi  giving  "a  last 
chance"  this  season,  before  sending  her  into  the  country 
as  a  failure,  and  bringing  out  her  younger  sister. 

Lady  Parham  greeted  the  hostess  with  effusion.  It 
was  a  rich  house,  and  these  small,  informal  dances  were 
said  to  be  more  helpful  to  matrimonial  development  than 
larger  affairs.  Then  she  perceived  Ashe,  and  her  whole 
manner  changed.  There  was  a  very  evident  bristling, 
and  she  gave  him  a  greeting  deliberately  careless. 

"Confound  the  woman!"  thought  Ashe,  and  his  own 
pride  rose. 

"Working  as  hard  as  usual.  Lady  Parham?"  he  asked 
her,  with  a  smile. 

"  If  you  like  to  put  it  so,"  was  the  stiff  reply.  "There 
is,  of  course,  a  good  deal  of  going  out." 

"I  hope,  if  I  may  say  so,  you  don't  allow  Lord  Par- 
ham to  do  too  much  of  it." 

"Lord  Parham  never  was  better  in  his  life,"  said  Lord 
Parham's  spouse,  with  the  air  of  putting  down  an  imper- 
tinence. 

"That's  good  news,  I  must  say  when  I  saw  him  this 
afternoon  I  thought  he  seemed  to  be  feeling  his  work 
a  good  deal." 

234 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Oh,  he's  worried,"  said  Lady  Parham,  sharply, 
"Worried  about  a  good  many  things."  She  turned  sud- 
denly, and  looked  at  her  companion — an  insolent  and 
deliberate  look, 

"Ah,  that's  where  the  wives  come  in!"  replied  Ashe, 
unperturbed.  "Look  at  Mrs.  Loraine.  She  has  the  art 
to  perfection — ^hasn't  she  ?  The  way  she  cushions  Lo- 
raine is  something  wonderful  to  see." 

Lady  Parham  flushed  angrily.  The  suggested  com- 
parison between  herself,  and  that  incessant  rattle  and 
blare  of  social  event  through  which  she  dragged  her  hus- 
band— conducting  thereby  a  vulgar  campaign  of  her  own, 
as  arduous  as  his  and  far  more  ambitious — and  the  ways 
and  character  of  gentle  Mrs.  Loraine,  absorbed  in  the 
man  she  adored,  scatter-brained  and  absent-minded 
towards  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  for  him  all  eyes  and 
ears,  an  angel  of  shelter  and  protection — this  did  not 
now  reach  the  Prime  Minister's  wife  for  the  first  time. 
But  she  had  no  opportunity  to  launch  a  retort,  even  sup- 
posing she  had  one  ready,  for  the  music  ceased,  and  the 
tide  of  dancers  surged  towards  the  doors.  It  brought 
Kitty  abruptly  face  to  face  with  Lady  Parham. 

"Oh!  how  d'you  do?"  said  Kitty,  in  a  tone  that  was 
already  an  offence,  and  she  held  out  a  small  hand  with 
an  indescribably  regal  air. 

Lady  Parham  just  touched  It,  glanced  at  the  owner 
from  top  to  toe,  and  walked  away.  Kitty  slipped  in 
beside  Ashe  for  a  moment,  with  her  back  to  the  wall, 
laughing  and  breathless. 

"  I  say,  Kitty,"  said  Ashe,  bending  over  her  and  speak- 
ing in  her  small  ear,  "I  thought  Lady  Parham  was 
eternally  obliged  to  us.     What's  wrong  with  her?" 
»6  235 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Only  that  I  can't  stand  her,"  said  Kitty,  "What's 
the  good  of  trying?"  She  looked  up,  a  flame  of  mutiny 
in  her  cheeks. 

"What,  indeed?"  said  Ashe,  feeling  as  reckless  as  she, 
"Her  manners  are  beyond  the  bounds.  But  look  here, 
Kitty,  don't  you  think  you'll  come  home?  You  know 
you  do  look  uncommonly  tired." 

Kitty  frowned, 

"  Home  ?  Why,  I'm  only  just  beginning  to  enjoy  my- 
self! Take  me  into  the  cool,  please,"  she  said  to  the  boy 
who  had  been  dancing  with  her,  and  who  still  hovered 
near,  in  case  his  divinity  might  allow  him  yet  a  few 
more  minutes.  But  as  she  put  out  her  hand  to  take  his 
arm,  Ashe  saw  her  waver  and  look  suddenly  across  the 
room. 

A  group  parted  that  had  been  clustering  round  a 
farther  door,  and  Ashe  perceived  Cliffe,  leaning  against 
the  doorway  with  his  arms  crossed.  He  was  surrounded 
by  pretty  women,  with  whom  he  seemed  to  be  carrying 
on  a  bantering  warfare.  Involuntarily  Ashe  watched 
for  the  recognition  between  him  and  Kitty.  Did  Kitty's 
lips  move  ?  Was  there  a  signal  ?  If  so,  it  passed  like  a 
flash;  Kitty  hurried  away,  and  Ashe  was  left,  haughtily 
furious  with  himself  that,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
he  had  played  the  spy. 

He  turned  in  his  discomfort  to  leave  the  dancing- 
room.  He  himself  enjoyed  society  frankly  enough. 
Especially  since  his  marriage  had  he  found  the  com- 
panionship of  agreeable  women  delightful.  He  went 
instinctively  to  seek  it,  and  drive  out  this  nonsense  from 
his  mind.  Just  inside  the  larger  drawing-room,  how- 
ever, he  came  across  Mary  Lyster,  sitting  in  a  corner  ap- 

236 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

parently  alone.  Mary  greeted  him,  but  with  an  evident 
coldness.  Her  manner  brought  back  all  the  preoccupa- 
tions of  his  walk  from  the  House.  In  spite  of  her  small 
cordiality,  he  sat  down  beside  her,  wondering  with  a 
vicarious  compunction  at  what  point  her  fortunes  might 
be,  and  how  Kitty's  proceedings  might  have  already  af- 
fected them.  But  he  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  thawing 
her  when  a  voice  behind  him  said: 

"This  is  my  dance,  I  think.  Miss  Lyster.  Where  shall 
we  sit  it  out?" 

Ashe  moved  at  once.  Mary  looked  up,  hesitated  vis- 
ibly, then  rose  and  took  Geoffrey  Cliffe's  arm. 

"Just  read  your  remarks  this  evening,"  said  Cliffe  to 
Ashe.  "Well,  now,  I  suppose  to-morrow  will  see  your 
ship  in  port?" 

For  it  was  reasonably  expected  that  the  morrow  would 
see  the  American  agreement  ratified  by  a  substantial 
ministerial  majority. 

"Certainly.  But  you  may  at  least  reflect  that  you 
have  lost  us  a  deal  of  time." 

"And  now  you  slay  us,"  said  Cliffe.  "Ah,  well — 
'  dulce  et  decorum  est'  etcetera." 

"Don't  imagine  that  you'll  get  many  of  the  honors 
of  martyrdom,"  laughed  Ashe — in  Cliffe's  eyes  an  offen- 
sive and  triumphant  figure,  as  he  leaned  carelessly  upon 
a  marble  pedestal  that  carried  a  bust  of  Horace  Walpole. 

"Why?"  Cliffe's  hand  had  gone  instinctively  to  his 
mustache.  Mary  had  dropped  his  arm,  and  now  stood 
quietly  beside  him,  pale  and  somewhat  jaded,  her  fine 
eyes  travelling  between  the  speakers. 

"Why?  Because  the  heresies  have  no  martyrs.  The 
halo  is  for  the  true  Church!" 

237 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"H'm!"  said  ClifEe,  with  a  reflective  sneer.  "I  sup- 
pose you  mean  for  the  successful?" 

"Do  I?"  said  Ashe,  with  nonchalance.  "Aren't  the 
true  Church  the  people  who  are  justified  by  the  event?" 

"The  orthodox  like  to  think  so,"  said  Cliffe.  "But 
the  heretics  have  a  way  of  coming  out  top." 

"Does  that  mean  you  chaps  are  going  to  win  at  the 
next  election?  I  devoutly  hope  you  may — 7^'^'re  all  as 
stale  as  ditch-water — and  as  for  places,  anybody's  wel- 
come to  mine!"  And  so  saying,  Ashe  lounged  away, 
attracted  by  the  bow  and  smile  of  a  pretty  French- 
woman, with  whom  it  was  always  agreeable  to  chat. 

"Ashe  trifles  it  as  usual,"  said  ClifiEe,  as  he  and  Mary 
forced  a  passage  into  one  of  the  smaller  rooms.  "Is 
there  anything  in  the  world  that  he  really  cares  about?" 

Mary  looked  at  him  with  a  start.  It  was  almost  on 
her  lips  to  say,  "Yes!  his  wife."  She  only  just  suc- 
ceeded in  driving  the  words  back. 

"His  not  caring  is  a  pretence,"  she  said.  "At  least. 
Lady  Tranmore  thinks  so.  She  believes  that  he  is  be- 
coming absorbed  in  politics — much  more  ambitious  than 
she  ever  thought  he  would  be." 

"That's  the  way  of  mothers,"  said  ClifTe,  with  a 
sarcastic  lip.  "They  have  got  to  make  the  best  of  their 
sons.     Tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do  this  summer." 

He  had  thrown  one  arm  round  the  back  of  a  chair, 
and  sat  looking  down  upon  her,  his  colorless  fair  hair 
falling  thick  upon  his  brow,  and  giving  by  contrast  a 
strange  inhuman  force  to  the  dark  and  singular  eyes 
beneath.  He  had  a  way  of  commanding  a  woman's 
attention  by  flashes  of  brusquerie,  melting  when  he  chose 
into  a  homage  that  had  in  it  the  note  of  an  older  world, 

238 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

a  world  that  had  still  leisure  for  passion  and  its  refine- 
ments, a  world  still  within  sight  of  that  other  which  had 
produced  the  Carte  du  tendre.  Perhaps  it  was  this, 
combined  with  the  virilities,  not  to  be  questioned,  of  his 
aspect,  the  signs  of  hard  physical  endurance  in  the  face 
burned  by  desert  suns,  and  the  suggestions  of  a  frame 
too  lean  and  gaunt  for  drawing-rooms,  that  gave  him  his 
spell  and  preserved  it. 

Mary's  conversation  with  him  consisted  at  first  of 
much  cool  fencing  on  her  part,  which  gradually  slipped 
back,  as  he  intended  it  should,  into  some  of  the  tones 
of  intimacy.  Each  meanwhile  was  conscious  of  a  secret 
range  of  thoughts — hers  concerned  with  the  effort  and 
struggle,  the  bitter  disappointments  and  disillusions  of 
the  past  six  weeks;  and  his  with  the  schemes  he  had 
cherished  in  the  East  and  on  the  way  home,  of  marrying 
Mary  L3^ster,_or  more  correctly,  Mary  Lyster's  money, 
and  so  resigning  himself  to  the  inevitable  boredoms  of 
an  English  existence.  For  her  the  mental  horizon  was 
full  of  Kitty — Kitty  insolent,  Kitty  triumphant.  For 
him,  too,  Kitty  made  the  background  of  thought — en- 
vironed, however,  with  clouds  of  indecision  and  resist- 
ance that  would  have  raised  happiness  in  Mary  could 
she  have  divined  them. 

For  he  was  now  not  easy  to  capture.  There  had  been 
enough  and  more  than  enough  of  women  in  his  life.  The 
game  of  politics  must  somehow  replace  them  henceforth, 
if,  indeed,  anything  were  still  worth  while,  except  the 
long  day  in  the  saddle  and  the  dawn  of  new  mornings  in 
untrodden  lands. 

Mingled,  all  these,  with  hot  dislike  of  Ashe,  with  the 
fascination  of  Kitty,  and  a  kind  of  venomous  pleasure  in 

239 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

the  commotion  produced  by  his  pursuit  of  her;  inter- 
penetrated, moreover,  through  and  through  with  the 
memory  of  his  one  true  feehng,  and  of  the  woman  who 
had  died,  ahenated  from  and  despising  him.  He  and 
Mary  passed  a  profitless  half -hour.  He  would  have  liked 
to  propitiate  her,  but  he  had  no  notion  what  he  should 
do  with  the  propitiation,  if  it  were  reached.  He  wanted 
her  money,  but  he  was  beginning  to  feel  with  restless- 
ness that  he  could  not  pay  the  cost.  The  poet  in  him 
was  still  strong,  crossed  though  it  were  by  the  advent- 
urer. 

He  took  her  back  to  the  dancing-room.  Mary  walked 
beside  him  with  a  dull,  fierce  sense  of  wrong.  It  v/as 
Kitty,  of  course,  who  had  done  it — Kitty  who  had  taken 
him  away  from  her. 

"That's  finished,"  said  ClifiEe  to  himself,  with  a  long 
breath  of  relief,  as  he  delivered  her  into  the  hands  of 
her  partner.     "Now  for  the  other!" 

Thenceforward,  no  one  saw  Kitty  and  no  one  danced 
with  her.  She  spent  her  time  in  beflowered  corners,  or 
remote  drawing-rooms,  with  Geoffrey  Cliffe.  Ashe  heard 
her  voice  in  the  distance  once  or  twice,  answering  a  voice 
he  detested ;  he  looked  into  the  supper-room  with  a  lady 
on  his  arm,  and  across  it  he  saw  Kitty,  with  her  white 
elbow  on  the  table  and  her  hand  propping  a  face  that 
was  turned — half  mocking  and  yet  wholly  absorbed — to 
Cliffe.  He  saw  her  flitting  across  vistas  or  disappearing 
through  far  doorways,  but  always  with  that  sinister  fig- 
ure in  attendance. 

His  mind  was  divided  between  a  secret  fury — -roused  in 
him  by  the  pride  of  a  man  of  high  birth  and  position, 

240 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

who  has  always  had  the  world  at  command,  and  now 
sees  an  impertinence  offered  him  which  he  does  not  know 
how  to  punish — and  a  mood  of  irony.  Cliffe's  persecu- 
tion of  Kitty  was  a  piece  of  confounded  bad  manners. 
But  to  look  at  it  with  the  round,  hypocritical  eyes  some 
of  these  people  were  bringing  to  bear  on  it  was  really 
too  much!  Let  them  look  to  their  own  affairs — they 
needed  it. 

At  last  the  party  broke  up.  Kitty  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  as  he  was  standing  on  the  stairs,  apparently 
absorbed  in  a  teasing  skirmish  with  a  charming  child  in 
her  first  season,  who  thought  him  the  most  delightful  of 
men. 

"I'm  ready,  V/illiam." 

He  turned  sharply,  and  saw  that  she  was  alone. 

"Come  along,  then!  In  five  minutes  more  I  should 
have  been  asleep  on  the  stairs." 

They  descended.  Kitty  went  for  her  cloak.  Ashe 
sent  for  the  carriage.  As  he  was  standing  on  the  steps 
Cliffe  pushed  past  him  and  called  for  a  hansom.  It 
came  in  the  rear  of  two  or  three  carriages  already  under 
the  portico.  He  ran  along  the  pavement  and  jumped  in. 
The  doors  were  just  being  shut  by  the  linkman  when  a 
little  figure  in  a  white  cloak  fliew  down  the  steps  of  the 
house  and  held  up  a  hand  to  the  driver  of  the  han- 
som. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  said  Lady  Parham,  in  a  voice  of 
suppressed  but  contemptuous  amazement,  as  she  turned 
to  Mary  Lyster,  who  was  driving  home  with  her.  "Call 
my  carriage,  please!"  she  said,  imperiously,  to  one  of  the 
footmen  at  the  door.  Her  carriage,  as  it  happened,  was 
immediately  behind  the  hansom ;  but  the  hansom  could 

241 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

not  move  because  of  the  small  lady  who  had  jumped 
upon  the  step  and  was  leaning  eagerly  forward. 

There  was  a  clamor  of  shouting  voices:  "Move -on, 
cabby!  Move  on!"  "Stand  clear,  ma'am,  please," 
said  the  driver,  while  Cliffe  opened  the  door  of  the  cab, 
and  seemed  about  to  jump  down  again. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  an  impatient  judge  behind  Lady 
Parham.     "What's  the  matter?" 

Lady  Parham  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It's  Lady  Kitty  Ashe,"  whispered  the  debutante,  who 
was  the  judge's  daughter,  "talking  to  Mr.  Cliffe.  Isn't 
she  pretty?" 

A  sudden  silence  fell  upon  the  group  in  the  porch. 
Kitty's  high,  clear  laugh  seemed  to  ring  back  into  the 
house.     Then  Ashe  ran  down  the  steps. 

"Kitty,  don't  stop  the  way."  He  peremptorily  drew 
her  back. 

Cliffe  raised  his  hat,  fell  back  into  the  hansom,  and 
the  man  whipped  up  his  horse. 

Kitty  came  back  to  the  outer  hall  with  Ashe.  Her 
cheeks  had  a  rose  flush,  her  wild  eyes  laughed  at  the 
crowd  on  the  steps,  without  really  seeing  them. 

"Are  you  going  with  Lady  Parham  ?"  she  said,  absent- 
ly, to  Mary  Lyster. 

"Yes." 

Kitty  looked  up  and  Ashe  saw  the  two  faces  as  she 
and  Mary  confronted  each  other  —  the  contempt  in 
Mary's,  the  startled  wrath  in  Kitty's 

"Come,  Miss  Lyster!"  said  Lady  Parham,  and  pushing 
past  the  Ashes  without  a  good-night,  she  hurried  to  her 
carriage,  drawing  up  the  glass  with  a  hasty  hand,  though 
the  night  was  balmy. 

242 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

For  a  few  moments  none  of  those  left  on  the  steps 
spoke,  except  to  fret  in  undertones  for  an  absent  carriage. 
Then  Ashe  saw  his  own  groom,  and  stormed  at  him  for 
delay.  In  another  minute  he  and  Kitty  were  in  the 
carriage,  and  the  figures  under  the  porch  dropped  out  of 
sight. 

"Better  not  do  that  again,  Kitty,  I  think,"  said  Ashe. 

Kitty  glanced  at  him.  But  both  voice  and  manner 
were  as  usual.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  ?"  she  said,  haughtily ; 
he  saw  that  she  had  grown  very  white.  "I  was  telling 
Geoffrey  where  to  find  me  at  Lord's." 

Ashe  winced  at  the  "  Archangelism "  of  the  Christian 
name. 

"You  kept  Lady  Parham  waiting." 

"What  does  that  matter?"  said  Kitty,  with  an  angry 
laugh. 

"And  you  did  Cliffe  too  much  honor,"  said  Ashe. 
"  It's  the  men  who  should  stand  on  the  steps — not  the 
women!" 

Kitty  sat  erect.  "What  do  you  mean?"  she  said,  in 
a  low,  menacing  voice. 

"Just  what  I  say,"  was  the  laughing  reply. 

Kitty  threw  herself  back  in  her  corner,  and  could  not 
be  induced  to  open  her  lips  or  look  at  her  companion  till 
they  reached  home. 

On  the  landing,  however,  outside  her  bedroom,  she 
turned  and  said:  "Don't,  please,  say  impertinent  things 
to  me  again!"  And  drawn  up  to  her  full  height,  the 
most  childish  and  obstinate  of  tragedy  queens,  she  swept 
into  her  room. 

Ashe  went  into  his  dressing-room.    'And  almost  im- 

243 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

mediately  afterwards  he  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock 
which  separated  his  room  from  Kitty's. 

For  the  first  time  since  their  marriage!  He  threw 
himself  on  his  bed,  and  passed  some  sleepless  hours. 
Then  fatigue  had  its  way.  When  he  awoke,  there  was  a 
gray  dawn  in  the  room,  and  he  was  conscious  of  some- 
thing pressing  against  his  bed.  Half  asleep,  he  raised 
himself  and  saw  Kitty,  in  a  long  white  dressing-gown, 
sitting  curled  up  on  the  floor,  or  rather  on  a  pillow,  her 
head  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  In  a  glass  op- 
posite he  saw  the  languid  grace  of  her  slight  form  and 
the  cloud  of  her  hair. 

"Kitty" — he  tried  to  shake  himself  into  full  con^ 
sciousness — "do  go  to  bed!" 

"Lie  down,"  said  Kitty,  lifting  her  arm  and  pressing 
him  down,  "and  don't  say  anything.  I  shall  go  to 
sleep." 

He  lay  down  obediently.  Presently  he  felt  that  her 
cheek  was  resting  on  one  of  his  hands,  and  in  his  semi- 
consciousness he  laid  the  other  on  her  hair.  Then  they 
both  fell  asleep. 

His  dreams  were  a  medley  of  the  fancy  ball  and  of 
some  pageant  scene  in  which  Iris  and  Ceres  appeared, 
and  there  was  a  rustic  dance  of  maidens  and  shepherds. 
Then  a  murmur  as  of  thunder  ran  through  the  scene, 
followed  by  darkness.  He  half  woke,  in  a  hot  distress, 
but  the  soft  cheek  was  still  there,  his  hand  still  felt  the 
silky  curls,  and  sleep  recaptured  him. 


XII 


WHEN  Ashe  woke  up  in  earnest  he  was  alone. 
He  sprang  up  in  bed  and  looked  round  the  dark- 
ened room,  ashamed  of  his  long  sleep ;  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  Kitty. 

After  dressing,  he  knocked,  as  usual,  at  Kitty's  door. 

"Oh,  come  in,"  cried  Kitty's  lightest  voice.  "Mar- 
garet's here;  but  if  you  don't  mind  her,  she  won't  mind 
you." 

Ashe  entered.  Kitty,  as  was  her  wont  four  days  out 
of  the  seven,  was  breakfasting  in  bed.  Margaret  French 
was  beside  her  with  a  batch  of  notes,  mostly  bills  and  un- 
answered invitations,  with  which  she  was  trying  to  make 
Kitty  cope. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Ashe,"  Margaret  lifted  a  smiling  face. 
"I  had  to  be  out  on  business  for  my  brother  all  day,  so 
I  thought  I'd  come  early  and  remind  Kitty  of  some  of 
these  tiresome  things  while  there  was  still  a  chance  of 
finding  her." 

"I  don't  know  why  guardian  angels  excuse  them- 
selves," said  Ashe,  as  they  shook  hands. 

"Oh,  dear,  what  a  lot  of  them  there  are!"  said  Kitty, 
tossing  over  the  notes  with  a  bored  air.  "Refuse  them 
all,  Margaret;  I'm  tired  to  death  of  dining  out." 

"Not  all,  I  think,"  pleaded  Margaret.  "Here's  that 
nice  woman— you  remember — who  wanted  to  thank  Mr. 

245 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Ashe  for  what  he'd  done  for  her  son.  You  promised  to 
dine  with  her." 

"Did  I?"  Kitty  wriggled  with  annoyance.  "Well, 
then,  I  suppose  we  must.  What  did  William  do  for  her  ? 
When  I  ask  him  to  do  something  for  the  nicest  boys  in 
the  world,  he  won't  lift  a  finger." 

"I  gave  him  some  introductions  in  Berlin,"  laughed 
Ashe.  "  What  you  generally  want  me  to  do,  Kitty,  is  to 
stuff  the  public  service  with  good-looking  idiots.  And 
there  I  really  can't  oblige  you." 

"  Every  one  knows  that  corruption  gets  the  best  men," 
said  Kitty.  "Hullo,  what's  that?"  and  she  lifted  a 
dinner-card,  and  looked  at  it  strangely. 

"My  dear  Kitty!  when  did  it  come?"  exclaimed 
Margaret  French,  in  dismay. 

It  was  a  dinner-card,  whereby  Lord  and  Lady  Par- 
ham  requested  the  honor  of  Mr.  and  Lady  Kitty  Ashe's 
company  at  dinner,  on  a  date  somewhere  within  the  first 
week  of  July. 

Ashe  bent  over  to  look  at  it. 

"I  think  that  came  ten  days  ago,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I  imagined  Kitty  accepted  it." 

"I  never  thought  of  it  from  that  day  to  this,"  said 
Kitty,  who  had  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head  and 
was  staring  at  the  ceiling.  "Say,  please,  that" — she 
spaced  out  the  words  deliberately — "Mr.  and  Lady 
Kitty  Ashe — are  unable  to  accept — Lord  and  Lady  Par- 
ham's  invitation — etc. — " 

"Kitty!"  said  Margaret,  firmly,  "there  must  be  a  're- 
gret' and  a  'kind.'  Think!  Ten  days  !  The  party  is 
next  week!" 

"No  'regret,'  and  no  'kind '!"  said  Kitty,  still  staring 
246 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

overhead.  "It's  my  affair,  please,  Margaret,  altogether. 
And  I'll  see  the  note  before  it  goes,  or  you'll  be  putting 
in  civilities." 

Margaret,  in  despair,  looked  entreatingly  at  Ashe. 
He  and  she  had  often  conspired  before  this  to  soften 
down  Kitty's  enormities.  But  he  said  nothing — made 
not  the  smallest  sign. 

With  difficulty  Margaret  got  a  few  more  directions  out 
of  Kitty,  over  whom  a  shade  of  sombre  taciturnity  had 
now  fallen.  Then,  saying  she  would  write  the  notes 
down-stairs  and  come  back,  she  gathered  up  her  basket- 
ful of  letters  and  departed. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  Ashe,  Kitty  took  up  a 
novel  beside  her,  and  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  it. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  he  stooped  over  her  and 
took  her  hand. 

"  Why  did  you  come  in  to  visit  me,  Kitty  ?"  he  said,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  her  indifferent  reply,  and  her 
hand  pulled  itself  away,  though  not  with  violence. 

"I  wish  I  could  understand  you,  Kitty."  His  tone 
was  not  quite  steady. 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  myself!"  said  Kitty,  short- 
ly, reaching  out  for  a  bunch  of  roses  that  Margaret  had 
just  brought  her,  and  burying  her  face  among  them. 

"Perhaps,  if  you  submitted  the  problem  to  me,"  said 
Ashe,  laughing,  "we  might  be  able  to  thresh  it  out  to- 
gether!" 

He  folded  his  arms  and  leaned  against  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  delighting  his  eyes  with  the  vision  of  her  amid  the 
folds  of  muslin  and  lace,  and  all  the  costly  refinements  of 
pillow  and  coverlet  with  which  she  liked  to  surround 

247 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

herself  at  that  hour  of  the  morning.  She  might  have 
been  a  French  princess  of  the  old  regime,  receiving  her 
court. 

Kitty  shook  her  head.  The  roses  fell  idly  from  her 
hands,  and  made  bright  patches  of  blush  pink  about  her. 
Ashe  went  on: 

"Anyway,  dear,  don't  give  silly  tongues  too  good  a 
handle!" 

He  threw  her  a  gay  comrade's  look,  as  though  to  say 
that  they  both  knew  the  folly  of  the  world,  but  he  per- 
haps the  better,  as  he  was  the  elder. 

"You  mean,"  said  Kitty,  calmly,  "that  I  am  not  to 
talk  so  much  to  Geoffrey  Cliffe?" 

"  Is  he  worth  it  ?"  said  Ashe.  "That's  what  I  want  to 
know — ^worth  the  fuss  that  some  people  make?" 

"It's  the  fuss  and  the  people  that  drive  one  on,"  said 
Kitty,  under  her  breath. 

"You  flatter  them  too  much,  darling!  Do  you  think 
you  were  quite  kind  to  me  last  night  ? — let's  put  it  that 
way.  I  looked  a  precious  fool,  you  know,  standing  on 
those  steps,  while  you  were  keeping  old  Mother  Par- 
ham  and  the  whole  show  waiting!" 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  silence,  at  his  height- 
ened color  and  insistent  eyes. 

"I  can't  think  what  made  you  marry  me,"  she  said, 
slowly. 

Ashe  laughed,  and  came  nearer. 

"And  I  can't  think,"  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice,  "what 
made  you  come — if  you  weren't  a  little  bit  sorry — and 
lean  your  dear  head  against  me  like  that,  last  night." 

"I  wasn't  sorry — I  couldn't  sleep,"  was  her  quick 
reply,  while  her  eyes  strove  to  keep  up  their  war  with  his. 

248 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  Ashe  moved  hastily 
away.     Kitty's  maid  entered. 

"I  was  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  your  breakfast  was  ready. 
And  Lady  Tranmore's  servant  has  brought  this  note." 

Ashe  took  it  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Get  my  things  ready,  please,"  said  Kitty  to  her 
maid.     Ashe  felt  himself  dismissed  and  went. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Kitty  sprang  out  of  bed, 
threw  on  a  dressing-gown,  and  ran  across  to  Blanche, 
who  was  bending  over  a  chest  of  drawers.  "Why  did 
you  say  those  foolish  things  to  me  yesterday?"  she  de- 
manded, taking  the  girl  impetuously  by  the  arm,  and  so 
startling  her  that  she  nearly  dropped  the  clothes  she 
held. 

"They  weren't  foolish,  my  lady,"  said  Blanche,  sul- 
lenly, with  averted  eyes. 

"They  were!"  cried  Kitty.  "Of  course,  I'm  a  vixen 
— I  always  was.  But  you  know,  Blanche,  I'm  not  al- 
ways as  bad  as  I  have  been  lately.  Very  soon  I  shall  be 
quite  charming  again — you'll  seel" 

"I  dare  say,  my  lady."  Blanche  went  on  sorting  and 
arranging  the  lingerie  she  had  taken  out  of  the  drawer. 

Kitty  sat  down  beside  her,  nursing  a  bare  foot  which 
was  crossed  over  the  other. 

"  You  know  how  1  abused  you  about  my  hair,  Blanche  ? 
Well,  Mrs.  Alcot  said,  that  very  night,  she  never  saw  it 
so  well  done.  She  thought  it  must  be  Pierrefitte's  best 
man.  Wasn't  it  hellish  of  me  ?  I  knew  quite  well  you'd 
done  it  beautifully." 

The  maid  said  nothing,  but  a  tear  fell  on  one  of 
Kitty's  night-dresses. 

"And  you  remember  the  green  garibaldi — last  week? 
249 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

I  just  loathed  it  —  because  you'd  forgotten  that  little 
black  rosette." 

"No!"  said  Blanche,  looking  up;  "your  ladyship  had 
never  ordered  it." 

"  I  did — I  did!  But  never  mind.  Two  of  my  friends 
have  wanted  to  copy  it,  Blanche.  They  wouldn't  be- 
lieve it  was  done  by  a  maid.  They  said  it  had  such 
style.  One  of  them  would  engage  you  to-morrow  if 
you  really  want  to  go — " 

A  silence. 

"But  you  won't  go,  Blanchie,  will  you?"  said  Kitty's 
silver  voice.  "  I'm  a  horrid  fiend,  but  I  did  get  Mr.  Ashe 
to  help  your  young  man — ^and  I  did  care  about  your 
poor  brother — and — and  —  "  she  stroked  the  girl's 
arm — ^"I  do  look  rather  nice  when  I'm  dressed,  don't 
I  ?  You  wouldn't  like  a  great  gawk  to  dress,  would 
you?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  leave  your  ladyship,"  said 
the  girl,  choking.     "But  I  can't  have  no  more — " 

"  No  more  ructions  ?"  said  Kitty,  meditating.  "  H'm, 
of  course  that's  serious,  because  I'm  made  so.  Well, 
now,  look  here,  Blanchie,  you  won't  give  me  warning 
again  for  a  fortnight,  whatever  I  do,  mind.  And  if  by 
then  I'm  past  praying  for,  you  may.  And  I'll  import 
a  Russian — or  a  Choctaw — who  won't  understand  when 
I  call  her  names.     Is  that  a  bargain,  Blanchie?" 

The  maid  hesitated. 

"Just  a  fortnight!"  said  Kitty,  in  her  most  seductive 
tones. 

"Very  well,  my  lady." 

Kitty  jumped  up,  waltzed  round  the  room,  the  white 
silk  skirts  of  her  dressing-gown  floating  far  and  wide, 

250 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

then  thrust  her  feet  into  her  sHppers,  and  began  to  dress 
as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

But  when  her  toilette  was  accomphshed,  Kitty  having 
dismissed  her  maid,  sat  for  some  time  in  front  of  her 
mirror  in  a  brown  study. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me?"  she  thought.  "  Will- 
iam is  an  angel,  and  1  love  him.  And  I  can't  do  what  he 
wants — I  cant!''  She  drew  a  long,  troubled  breath. 
The  lips  of  the  face  reflected  in  the  glass  were  dry  and 
colorless,  the  eyes  had  a  strange,  shrinking  expression. 
"People  are  possessed — I  know  they  are.  They  can't 
help  themselves.  I  began  this  to  punish  Mary — and 
now — when  I  don't  see  Geoffrey,  everything  is  odious 
and  dreary.  I  can't  care  for  anything.  Of  course,  I 
ought  to  care  for  William's  politics.  I  expect  I've  done 
him  harm — I  know  I  have.     What's  wrong  with  me?" 

But  suddenly,  in  the  very  midst  of  her  self-examina- 
tion, the  emotion  and  excitement  that  she  had  felt  of  late 
in  her  long  conversations  with  Cliffe  returned  upon  her, 
filling  her  at  once  with  poignant  memory  and  a  keen 
expectation  to  which  she  yielded  herself  as  a  wild  sea- 
bird  to  the  rocking  of  the  sea.  They  had  started — those 
conversations — from  her  attempt  to  penetrate  the  secret 
history  of  the  man  whose  poems  had  filled  her  with  a 
thrilling  sense  of  feelings  and  passions  beyond  her  ken 
— untrodden  regions,  full,  no  doubt,  of  shadow  and  of 
poison,  but  infinitely  alluring  to  one  whose  nature 
was  best  summed  up  in  the  two  words,  curiosity  and 
daring.  She  had  not  found  it  quite  easy.  Cliffe,  as  we 
know,  had  resented  the  levity  of  her  first  attempt.  But 
when  she  renewed  it,  more  seriously  and  sweetly,  com- 

17  251 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

bining  with  it  a  number  of  subtle  flatteries,  the  flattery 
of  her  beauty  and  her  position,  of  the  private  interest 
she  could  not  help  showing  in  the  man  who  was  her 
husband's  public  antagonist,  and  of  an  admiration  for  his 
poems  which  was  not  so  much  mere  praise  as  an  actual 
covetous  sharing  in  them,  a  making  their  ideas  and  their 
music  her  own — Cliffe  could  not  in  the  end  resist  her. 
After  all,  so  far,  she  only  asked  him  to  talk  of  himself,  and 
for  a  man  of  his  type  the  process  is  the  very  breath  of 
his  being,  the  stimulus  and  liberation  of  all  his  powers. 

So  that  before  they  knew  they  were  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  burning  subjects  of  human  discussion — at  first 
in  a  manner  comparatively  veiled  and  general,  then  with 
the  sharpest  personal  reference  to  Cliffe's  own  story, 
as  the  intimacy  between  them  grew.  Jealousy,  suffer- 
ing, the  "hard  cases"  of  passion — why  men  are  selfish 
and  exacting,  why  women  mislead  and  torment — the 
ugly  waste  and  crudity  of  death — it  was  among  these 
great  themes  they  found  themselves.  Death  above  all — 
it  was  to  a  thought  of  death  that  Cliffe's  harsh  face  owed 
its  chief  spell  perhaps  in  Kitty's  eyes.  A  woman  had 
died  for  love  of  him,  crushed  by  his  jealousy  and  her  own 
self-scorn.  So  Kitty  had  been  told;  and  Cliffe's  tortured 
vanity  would  not  deny  it.  How  could  she  have  cared  so 
much?     That  was  the  puzzle. 

But  this  vicarious  relation  had  now  passed  into  a 
relation  of  her  own.  Cliffe  was  to  Kitty  a  problem — 
and  a  problem  which,  beyond  a  certain  point,  defied 
her.  The  element  of  sex.  of  course,  entered  in,  but 
only  as  intensifying  the  contrasts  and  mysteries  of 
imagination.  And  he  made  her  feel  these  contrasts  and 
mysteries  as  she  had  never  yet  felt  them;   and  so  he 

252 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

enlarged  the  world  for  her,  he  plunged  her,  if  only 
by  contact  with  his  own  bitter  and  irritable  genius, 
into  new  regions  of  sentiment  and  feeling.  For  in 
spite  of  the  vulgar  elements  in  him  there  were  also 
elements  of  genius.  The  man  was  a  poet  and  a  thinker, 
though  he  were  at  the  same  time,  in  some  sense,  an 
adventurer.  His  mind  was  stored  with  eloquent  and 
beautiful  imagery,  the  poetry  of  others,  and  poetry  of 
his  own.  He  could  pursue  the  meanest  personal  objects 
in  an  tmscrupulous  way;  but  he  had  none  the  less 
passed  through  a  wealth  of  tragic  circumstance ;  he  had 
been  face  to  face  with  his  own  soul  in  the  wilds  of  the 
earth;  he  had  met  every  sort  of  physical  danger  with 
contempt;  and  his  arrogant,  imperious  temper  was  of  the 
kind  which  attracts  many  women,  especially,  perhaps, 
women  physically  small  and  intellectually  fearless,  like 
Kitty,  who  feel  in  it  a  challenge  to  their  power  and  their 
charm. 

His  society,  then,  had  in  these  six  weeks  become,  for 
Kitty,  a  passion — a  passion  of  the  imagination.  For  the 
man  himself,  she  would  probably  have  said  that  she  felt 
more  repulsion  than  anything  else.  But  it  was  a  repul- 
sion that  held  her,  because  of  the  constant  sense  of 
reaction,  of  on-rushing  life,  which  it  excited  in  herself. 

Add  to  these  the  elements  of  mischief  and  defiance  in 
the  situation,  the  snatching  him  from  Mary,  her  enemy 
and  slanderer,  the  defiance  of  Lady  Grosville  and  all 
other  hypocritical  tyrants,  the  pride  of  dragging  at  her 
chariot  wheels  a  man  whom  most  people  courted  even 
when  they  loathed  him,  who  enjoyed,  moreover,  an 
astonishing  reputation  abroad,  especially  in  that  France 
which  Kitty  adored,  as  a  kind  of  modern  Byron,  the  only 

253 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Englishman  who  could  still  display  in  public  the  "pa- 
geant of  a  bleeding  heart,"  without  making  himself  ridic- 
ulous, and  perhaps  enough  has  been  heaped  together  to 
explain  the  infatuation  that  now,  like  a  wild  spring  gust 
on  a  shining  lake,  was  threatening  to  bring  Kitty's  light 
bark  into  dangerous  waters. 

"I  don't  care  for  him,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat 
thinking  alone,  "but  I  must  see  him — I  will!  And  I 
will  talk  to  him  as  I  please,  and  where  I  please!" 

Her  small  frame  stiffened  under  the  obstinacy  of  her 
resolution.  Kitty's  will  at  a  moment  of  this  kind  was  a 
fatality — so  strong  was  it,  and  so  irrational. 

Meanwhile,  down-stairs,  Ashe  himself  was  wrestling 
with  another  phase  of  the  same  situation.  Lady  Tran- 
more's  note  had  said:  "I  shall  be  with  you  almost 
immediately  after  you  receive  this,  as  I  want  to  catch 
you  before  you  go  to  the  Foreign  Office." 

Accordingly,  they  were  in  the  library,  Ashe  on  the 
defensive.  Lady  Tranmore  nervous,  embarrassed,  and 
starting  at  a  sound.  Both  of  them  watched  the  door. 
Both  looked  for  and  dreaded  the  advent  of  Kitty. 

"Dear  William,"  said  his  mother  at  last,  stretching 
her  hand  across  a  small  table  which  stood  between 
them  and  laying  it  on  her  son's,  "you'll  forgive  me, 
won't  you? — even  if  I  do  seem  to  you  prudish  and 
absurd.  But  I  am  afraid  you  ought  to  tell  Kitty  some 
of  the  unkind  things  people  are  saying!  You  know  I've 
tried,  and  she  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  And  you  ought  to 
beg  her — yes,  William,  indeed  you  ought! — not  to  give 
any  further  occasion  for  them." 

She  looked  at  him  anxiously,  full  of  that  timidity 
254 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

which  haunts  the  deepest  and  tenderest  affections. 
She  had  just  given  him  to  read  a  letter  from  Lady 
Grosville  to  herself.  Ashe  ran  through  it,  then  laid  it 
down  with  a  gesture  of  scorn. 

"Kitty  apparently  enjoyed  a  moonlight  walk  with 
Cliffe.  Why  shouldn't  she  ?  Lady  Grosville  thinks  the 
moon  was  made  to  sleep  by — other  people  don't." 

"But,  William! — at  night — when  everybody  had  gone 
to  bed — escaping  from  the  house — they  two  alone!" 

Lady  Tranmore  looked  at  him  entreatingly,  as  though 
driven  to  protest,  and  yet  hating  the  sound  of  her  own 
words. 

Ashe  laughed.  He  was  smoking  with  an  air  so  non- 
chalant that  his  mother's  heart  sank.  For  she  divined 
that  criticism  in  the  society  around  her  which  she  was 
never  allowed  to  hear.  Was  it  true,  indeed,  that  his 
natural  indolence  could  not  rouse  itself  even  to  the  de- 
fence of  a  young  wife's  reputation  ? 

"All  the  fault  of  the  Grosvilles,"  said  Ashe,  after  a 
moment,  lighting  another  cigarette,  "in  shutting  up  their 
great  heavy  house,  and  drawing  their  great  heavy  cur- 
tains on  a  May  night,  when  all  reasonable  people  want 
to  be  out-of-doors.  My  dear  mother,  what's  the  good  of 
paying  any  attention  to  what  people  like  Lady  Gros- 
ville say  of  people  like  Kitty  ?  You  might  as  well  ex- 
pect Deborah  to  hit  it  off  with  Ariel!" 

"William,  don't  laugh!"  said  his  mother,  in  distress. 
"Geoffpey  Cliffe  is  not  a  man  to  be  trusted.  You  and 
I  know  that  of  old.     He  is  a  boaster,  and — " 

"And  a  liar!"  said  Ashe,  quietly.  "Oh!  I  know 
that." 

"And  yet  he  has  this  power  over  women — one  ought 
2.'?'; 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

to  look  it  in  the  face.  William,  dearest  William!"  she 
leaned  over  and  clasped  his  hand  close  in  both  hers, 
"do  persuade  Kitty  to  go  away  from  London  now — at 
once!" 

"Kitty  won't  go,"  said  Ashe,  quietly.  "I  am  sorry, 
dear  mother.  I  hate  that  you  should  be  worried.  But 
there's  the  fact.     Kitty  won't  go!" 

"Then  use  your  authority,"  said  Lady  Tranmore. 

"I  have  none." 

"William!"  Ashe  rose  from  his  seat,  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down.  His  aspect  of  competence  and 
dignity,  as  .of  a  man  already  accustomed  to  command 
and  destined  to  a  high  experience,  had  never  been  more 
marked  than  at  the  very  moment  of  this  helpless  utter- 
ance. His  mother  looked  at  him  with  mingled  admira- 
tion and  amazement. 

Presently  he  paused  beside  her. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  understand  me,  mother.  I  can- 
not fight  with  Kitty.  Before  I  asked  her  to  marry  me,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  that.  I  knew  then  and  I  know 
now  that  nothing  but  disaster  could  come  of  it.  She 
must  be  free,  and  I  shall  not  attempt  to  coerce  her." 

"Or  to  protect  her!"  cried  his  mother. 

"As  to  that,  I  shall  do  what  I  can.  But  I  clearly 
foresaw  when  we  married  that  we  should  scandalize 
a  good  many  of  the  weaker  brethren." 

He  smiled,  but,  as  it  seemed  to  his  mother,  with  some 
effort. 

"William!  as  a  public  man — " 

He  interrupted  her. 

"If  I  can  be  both  Kitty's  husband  and  a  public  man, 
well  and  good.     If  not,  then  I  shall  be — " 

256 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Kitty's  husband?"  cried  Lady  Tranmore,  with  an 
accent  of  bitterness,  ahnost  of  sarcasm,  of  which  she 
instantly  repented  her.     She  changed  her  tone. 

"  It  is,  of  course,  Kitty,  first  and  foremost,  who  is  con- 
cerned in  your  pubhc  position,"  she  said,  more  gently. 
"Dearest  William — she  is  so  young  still — she  probably 
doesn't  quite  understand,  in  spite  of  her  great  cleverness. 
But  she  docs  care — she  must  care — and  she  ought  to 
know  what  slight  things  may  sometimes  affect  a  man's 
prospects  and  future  in  this  country." 

Ashe  said  nothing.  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  resumed 
his  pacing.    Lady  Tranmore  looked  at  him  in  perplexity. 

"William,  I  heard  a  rumor  last  night — " 

He  held  his  cigarette  suspended. 

"Lord  Crashaw  told  me  that  the  resignations  would 
certainly  be  in  the  papers  this  week,  and  that  the  min- 
istry would  go  on — after  a  rearrangement  of  posts.  Is 
it  true?" 

Ashe  resumed  his  cigarette. 

"True — as  to  the  facts — so  far  as  I  know.  As  to  the 
date,  Lord  Crashaw  knows,  I  think,  no  more  than  I  do. 
It  may  be  this  week,  it  may  be  next  month." 

"Then  I  hear — thank  goodness  I  never  see  her," 
Elizabeth  went  on,  relvictantly — "that  that  dreadful 
woman.  Lady  Parham,  is  more  infuriated  than  ever — " 

"With  Kitty?  Let  her  be!  It  really  doesn't  matter 
an  old  shoe,  either  to  Kitty  or  me." 

"  She  can  be  a  most  bitter  enemy,  William.  And  she 
certainly  influences  Lord  Parham." 

Ashe  smoked  and  smiled.  Lady  Tranmore  saw  that 
his  pride,  too,  had  been  aroused,  anil  that  here  he  was 
likely  to  prove  as  obstinate  as  Kitty. 

257 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"I  wish  I  could  get  her  out  of  my  mind!"  she  sighed. 

Ashe  glanced  at  her  kindly. 

"I  daresay  we  shall  hold  our  own.  Xanthippe  is  not 
beloved,  and  I  don't  believe  Parham  will  let  her  inter- 
fere with  what  he  thinks  best  for  the  party.  Will  it  pay 
to  put  me  in  the  cabinet  or  not?  —  that's  what  he'll 
ask.  I  shall  be  strongly  backed,  too,  by  most  of  our 
papers." 

A  number  of  thoughts  ran  through  Lady  Tranmore's 
brain.  With  her  long  experience  of  London,  she  knew 
well  what  the  sudden  lowering  of  a  man's  "considera- 
tion"— to  use  a  French  word  —  at  a  critical  moment 
may  mean.  A  cooling  of  the  general  regard — a  breath 
of  detraction  coming  no  one  knows  whence — and  how 
soon  new  claims  emerge,  and  the  indispensable  of  yes- 
terday becomes  the  negligible  of  to-day! 

But  even  if  she  could  have  brought  herself  to  put  any 
of  these  anxieties  into  words,  she  had  no  opportunity. 
Kitty's  voice  was  in  the  hall;  the  handle  turned,  and  she 
"an  in. 

"  William!     Ah! — I  didn't  know  mother  was  here." 

She  went  up  to  Elizabeth,  and  lightly  kissed  that 
lady's  cheek. 

"Good-morning.  William,  I  just  came  to  tell  you 
that  I  may  be  late  for  dinner,  so  perhaps  you  had  bet- 
ter dine  at  the  House.     I  am  going  on  the  river." 

"Are  you?"  said  Ashe,  gathering  up  his  papers. 
"Wish  I  was." 

"Are  you  going  with  the  Crashaw's  party?"  asked 
Elizabeth.     "I  know  they  have  one." 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  said  Kitty.  "I  hate  a  crowd  on  the 
river,     I  am  going  with  Geoffrey  Cliffe." 

25S 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Ashe  bent  over  his  desk.  Lady  Tranmore's  eyebrows 
went  up,  and  she  could  not  restrain  the  word: 

"Alone?" 

"  N  aturellement  r  laughed  Kitty.  "He  reads  me 
French  poetry,  and  we  talk  French.  We  let  Madeleine 
Alcot  come  once,  but  her  accent  was  so  shocking  that 
Geoffrey  wouldn't  have  her  again!" 

Lady  Tranmore  flushed  deeply.  The  "Geoffrey" 
seemed  to  her  intolerable.  Kitty,  arrayed  in  the  fresh- 
est of  white  gowns,  walked  away  to  the  farther  end  of  the 
library  to  consult  a  Bradshaw.  Elizabeth,  looking  up, 
caught  her  son's  eyes  —  and  the  mingled  humor  and 
vexation  in  them,  wherewith  he  appealed  to  her,  as 
it  were,  to  see  the  whole  silly  business  as  he  himself 
did.  Lady  Tranmore  felt  a  moment's  strong  reaction. 
Had  she  indeed  been  making  a  foolish  fuss  about 
nothing  ? 

Yet  the  impression  left  by  the  miserable  meditations 
of  her  night  was  still  deep  enough  to  make  her  say — with 
just  a  signal  from  eye  and  lips,  so  that  Kitty  neither  saw 
nor  heard — "Don't  let  her  go!" 

Ashe  shook  his  head.  He  moved  towards  the  door, 
and  stood  there  despatch-box  in  hand,  throwing  a  last 
look  at  his  wife. 

"Don't  be  late,  Kitty — or  I  shall  be  nervous.  I  don't 
trust  Cliffe  on  the  river.  And  please  make  it  a  rule  that, 
in  locks,  he  stops  quoting  French  poetry." 

Kitty  turned  round,  startled  and  apparently  annoyed 
by  his  tone. 

"He  is  an  excellent  oar,"  she  said,  shortly. 

"Is  he?  At  Oxford  we  tried  him  for  the  Torpids — " 
Ashe's  shrug  completed  his  remark.     Then,  still  disre- 

259 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

garding  another  imploring  look  from  Lady  Tranmore,  he 
left  the  room. 

Kitty  had  flushed  angrily.  The  belittling,  malicious 
note  in  Ashe's  manner  had  been  clear  enough.  She 
braced  herself  against  it,  and  Lady  Tranmore's  chance 
was  lost.  For  when,  summoning  all  her  courage, 
and  quite  uncertain  whether  her  son  would  approve 
or  blame  her,  Elizabeth  approached  her  daughter-in- 
law  affectionately,  trying  in  timid  and  apologetic  words 
to  unburden  her  own  heart  and  reach  Kitty's,  Kitty  met 
her  with  one  of  those  outbursts  of  temper  that  women 
like  Elizabeth  Tranmore  cannot  cope  with.  Their  moral 
recoil  is  too  great.  It  is  the  recoil  of  the  spiritual  aristo- 
crat; and  between  them  and  the  children  of  passion  the 
links  are  few,  the  antagonism  eternal. 

She  left  the  house,  pale,  dignified,  the  tears  in  her 
eyes.  Kitty  ran  up-stairs,  humming  an  air  from 
"Faust,"  as  though  she  would  tear  it  to  pieces,  put  on 
a  flame-colored  hat  that  gave  a  still  further  note  of 
extravagance  to  her  costume,  ordered  a  hansom,  and 
drove  away. 

Whether  Kitty  got  much  joy  out  of  the  three  weeks 
which  followed  must  remain  uncertain.  She  had  certain- 
ly routed  Mary  Lyster,  if  there  were  any  final  satisfaction 
in  that.  Mary  had  left  town  early,  and  was  now  in 
Somersetshire  helping  her  father  to  entertain,  in  order, 
said  the  malicious,  to  put  the  best  face  possible  on  a  de- 
feat which  this  time  had  been  serious.  And  instead  of 
devoting  himself  to  the  wooing  of  a  northern  constitu- 
ency where  he  had  been  adopted  as  the  candidate  of  a 
new  Tory  group.   Cliff e  lingered   obstinately  in  town, 

260 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

endangering  his  chances  and  angering  his  supporters. 
Kitty's  influence  over  his  actions  was,  indeed,  patent  and 
undenied,  whatever  might  be  the  general  opinion  as  to 
her  effect  upon  his  heart.  Some  of  Kitty's  intimates  at 
any  rate  were  convinced  that  his  absorption  in  the  mat- 
ter was  by  now,  to  say  the  least,  no  less  eager  and  per- 
sistent than  hers.  At  this  point  it  was  by  no  means  still 
a  relation  of  flattery  on  Kitty's  side  and  a  pleased  self- 
love  on  his.  It  had  become  a  duel  of  two  personalities, 
or  rather  two  imaginations.  In  fact,  as  Kitty,  learning 
the  ways  of  his  character,  became  more  proudly  mistress 
of  herself  and  him,  his  interest  in  her  visibly  increased. 
It  might  almost  be  said  that  she  was  beginning  to  hold 
back,  and  he  for  the  first  time  pursued. 

Once  or  twice  he  had  the  grace  to  ask  himself  where 
it  was  all  to  end.  Was  he  in  love  with  her?  An  absurd 
question!  He  had  paid  his  heavy  tribute  to  passion  if 
any  man  ever  had,  and  had  already  hung  up  his  votive 
tablet  and  his  garments  wet  from  shipwreck  in  the  temple 
of  the  god.  But  it  seemed  that,  after  all  said  and  done, 
the  society  of  a  woman,  young,  beautiful,  and  capricious, 
was  still  the  best  thing  which  the  day — the  London  day, 
at  all  events — had  to  bring.  At  Kitty's  suggestion  he 
was  collecting  and  revising  a  new  volume  of  his  poems. 
He  and  she  quarrelled  over  them  perpetually.  Some- 
times there  was  not  a  line  which  pleased  her;  and  then, 
again,  she  would  delight  him  with  the  homage  of  sudden 
tears  in  her  brown  eyes,  and  a  praise  so  ardent  and  so 
refined  that  it  almost  compared — as  Kitty  meant  it 
should — with  that  of  the  dead.  In  the  shaded  draw- 
ing-room, where  every  detail  pleased  his  taste,  Cliffe's 
harsh  voice  thundered  or  murmured  verse  which  was 

261 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

beyond  dispute  the  verse  of  a  poet,  and  thereby  sensu- 
ous and  passionate.  Ostensibly  the  verse  concerned 
another  woman;  in  truth,  the  sHght  and  lovely  figure 
sitting  on  the  farther  side  of  the  flowered  hearth,  the 
delicate  head  bent,  the  finger-tips  lightly  joined,  entered 
day  by  day  more  directly  into  the  consciousness  of  the 
poet.  What  harm?  All  he  asked  was  intelligence  and 
response.  As  to  her  heart,  he  made  no  claim  upon  it 
whatever.  Ashe,  by-the-way,  was  clearly  not  jealous — a 
sensible  attitude,  considering  Lady  Kitty's  strength  of 
will. 

Into  Cliff e's  feeling  towards  Ashe  there  entered,  in- 
deed, a  number  of  evil  things,  determined  by  quite  other 
relations  between  the  two  men — the  relation  of  the  man 
who  wants  to  the  man  who  has,  of  the  man  beaten  by 
the  restlessness  of  ambition  to  the  man  who  possesses  all 
that  the  other  desires,  and  affects  to  care  nothing  about 
it — of  the  combatant  who  fights  with  rage  to  the  com- 
batant who  fights  with  a  smile.  Cliffe  could  often  lash 
himself  into  fury  by  the  mere  thought  of  Ashe's  oppor- 
tunities and  Ashe's  future,  combined  with  the  belief  that 
Ashe's  mood  towards  himself  was  either  contemptuous 
or  condescending.  And  it  was  at  such  moments  that  he 
would  fling  himself  with  most  resource  into  the  estab- 
lishing of  his  ascendency  over  Kitty. 

The  two  men  met  when  they  did  meet  —  which 
was  but  seldom — on  perfectly  civil  terms.  If  Ashe 
arrived  unexpectedly  from  the  House  in  the  late  after- 
noon to  find  Cliffe  in  the  drawing-room  reading  aloud 
to  Kitty,  the  politics  of  the  moment  provided  talk 
enough  till  Cliffe  could  decently  take  his  departure.  He 
never  dined  with  them  alone,  Kitty  having  no  mind 

262 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

whatever  for  the  discomforts  of  such  a  party ;  and  in  the 
evenings  when  he  and  Kitty  met  at  a  small  number  of 
houses,  where  the  flirtation  was  watched  nightly  with  a 
growing  excitement,  Ashe's  duties  kept  him  at  West- 
minster, and  there  was  nothing  to  hinder  that  flow  of 
small  and  yet  significant  incident  by  which  situations  of 
this  kind  are  developed. 

Ashe  set  his  teeth.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  finally 
that  it  was  a  plague  and  a  tyranny  which  would  pass, 
and  could  only  be  magnified  by  opposition.  But  his 
temper  suffered.  There  were  many  small  quarrels  dur- 
ing these  weeks  between  himself  and  Kitty,  quarrels 
which  betrayed  the  tension  produced  in  him  by  what 
was — in  essentials — an  iron  self-control.  But  they  made 
daily  life  a  sordid,  unlovely  thing,  and  they  gave  Kitty 
an  excuse  for  saying  that  William  was  as  violent 
as  herself,  and  for  seeking  refuge  in  the  exaltations 
of  feeling  or  of  fancy  provided  by  ClifEe's  companion- 
ship. 

Perhaps  of  all  the  persons  in  the  drama.  Lady  Tran- 
more  was  the  most  to  be  pitied.  She  sat  at  home,  having 
no  heart  to  go  to  Hill  Street,  and  more  tied  indeed  than 
usual  by  the  helpless  illness  of  her  husband.  Never,  in 
all  these  days,  did  Ashe  miss  his  daily  visit  to  his  father. 
He  would  come  in,  apparently  his  handsome,  good- 
humored  self,  ready  to  read  aloud  for  twenty  minutes,  or 
merely  to  sit  in  silence  by  the  sick  man,  his  eyes  making 
affectionate  answer  every  now  and  then  to  the  dumb 
looks  of  Lord  Tranmore.  Only  his  mother  sought  and 
found  that  slight  habitual  contraction  of  the  brow  which 
bore  witness  to  some  equally  persistent  disquiet  of  the 
mind.     But  he  kept  her  at  arm's-length  on  the  subject 

263 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

of   Kitty.     She  dared   not  tell   him   any   of  the  gossip 
which  reached  her. 

Meanwhile  these  weeks  meant  for  her  not  only  the 
dread  of  disgrace,  but  the  disappointment  of  a  just  am- 
bition, the  humiliation  of  her  mother's  pride.  The  polit- 
ical crisis  approached  rapidly,  and  Ashe's  name  was  less 
and  less  to  the  front.  Lady  Parham  was  said  to  be  tak- 
ing an  active  part  in  the  consultations  and  intrigues  that 
surrounded  her  husband,  and  it  was  well  known  by 
now  to  the  inner  circle  that  her  hostility  to  the  Ashes, 
and  her  insistence  on  the  fact  that  cabinet  ministers  must 
be  beyond  reproach,  and  their  wives  persons  to  whose 
houses  the  party  can  go  without  demeaning  themselves, 
were  likely  to  be  of  importance.  Moreover,  Ashe's  suc- 
cess in  the  House  of  Commons  was  no  longer  what  it  had 
been  earlier  in  the  session.  The  party  papers  had  cooled. 
Elizabeth  Tranmore  felt  a  blight  in  the  air.  Yet  William, 
with  his  position  in  the  country,  his  high  ability,  and 
the  social  weight  belonging  to  the  heir  of  the  Tranmore 
peerage  and  estates,  was  surely  not  a  person  to  be  light- 
ly ignored !     Would  Lord  Parham  venture  it  ? 

At  last  the  resignations  of  the  two  ministers  were  in 
the  Times;  there  were  communications  between  the 
Queen  and  the  Premier,  and  London  plunged  with  such 
ardor  as  is  possible  in  late  July  into  the  throes  of  cabi- 
net-making. Kitty  insisted  petulantly  that  of  course 
all  would  be  well;  William's  services  were  far  too  great 
to  be  ignored;  though  Lord  Parham  would  no  doubt 
slight  him  if  he  dared.  But  the  party  and  the  public 
would  see  to  that.  The  days  were  gone  by  when  vulgar 
old  women  like  Lady  Parham  could  have  any  real  in- 

264 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

fluence  on  politicr^l  appointments.  Otherwise,  who  would 
condescend  to  politics  ? 

Ashe  brought  her  amusing  reports  from  the  House  or 
the  clubs  of  the  various  intrigues  going  on,  and,  as  to  his 
own  chances,  refused  to  discuss  them  seriously.  Once  or 
twice  when  Kitty,  in  his  presence,  insisted  on  speaking  of 
them  to  some  political  intimate,  only  to  provoke  an 
evident  embarrassment,  Ashe  suffered  the  tortures  which 
proud  men  know.  But  he  never  lost  his  tone  of  light 
detachment,  and  the  conclusion  of  his  friends  was  that, 
as  usual,  "Ashe  didn't  care  a  button." 

The  hours  passed,  however,  and  no  sign  came  from  the 
Prime  Minister.  Everything  was  still  uncertain;  but 
Ashe  had  realized  that  at  least  he  was  not  to  be  taken 
into  the  inner  counsels  of  the  party.  The  hopes  and 
fears,  the  heartburnings  and  rivalries  of  such  a  state  of 
things  are  proverbial.  Ashe  wondered  impatiently 
when  the  beastly  business  would  be  over,  and  he  could 
get  off  to  Scotland  for  the  air  and  sport  of  which  he 
was  badly  in  need. 

It  was  a  Friday,  in  the  first  week  of  August.  Ashe 
was  leaving  the  Athenaeum  with  another  member  of  the 
House  when  a  newspaper  boy  rushing  along  with  a 
fresh  bundle  of  papers  passed  them  with  the  cry,  "New 
cabinet  complete!  Official  list!"  They  caught  him  up, 
snatched  a  paper,  and  read.  Two  men  of  middle  age, 
conspicuous  in  Parliament,  but  not  hitherto  in  office, 
one  of  them  of  great  importance  as  a  lawyer,  the  other 
as  a  military  critic,  were  appointed,  the  one  to  the 
Home  Office,  the  other  to  the  Ministry  of  War;  there 
had  been  some  shuffiing  in  the  minor  offices,  and  a  new 

265 


The    Marriage    of  William   As  lie 

Privy  Seal  had  dawned  upon  the  world.  For  the  rest, 
all  was  as  before,  and  in  the  formal  list  the  name  of  the 
Honorable  William  Travers  Ashe  still  remained  attached 
to  the  Under-Secretaryship  for  Foreign  Affairs. 

Ashe's  friend  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  avoided 
looking  at  his  companion.  "A  bomb-shell,  to  begin 
with,"  he  said;  "otherwise  the  flattest  thing  out." 

"On  the  contrary,"  laughed  Ashe.  "Parham  has 
shown  a  wonderful  amount  of  originality.  If  you  and  I 
are  taken  by  surprise,  what  will  the  public  be?  And 
they'll  like  him  all  the  better — you'll  see.  He  has  shown 
courage  and  gone  for  new  men — that's  what  they'll  say. 
Vine  Parham!  Well,  good-bye.  Now,  please  the  Lord, 
we  shall  get  off — and  I  may  be  among  the  grouse  this 
day  week." 

He  stopped  on  his  way  out  of  the  club  to  discuss  the 
list  with  the  men  coming  in.  He  was  conscious  that 
some  would  have  avoided  him.  But  he  had  no  mind  to 
be  avoided,  and  his  caustic,  good-humored  talk  carried 
off  the  situation.  Presently  he  was  walking  homeward, 
swinging  his  stick  with  the  gayety  of  a  school-boy  ex- 
pecting the  holidays. 

As  he  mounted  St.  James's  Street  a  carriage  descend- 
ed. Ashe  mechanically  took  off  his  hat  to  the  half- 
recognized  face  within,  and  as  he  did  so  perceived  the 
icy  bow  and  triumphant  eyes  of  Lady  Parham. 

He  hurried  along,  fighting  a  curious  sensation,  as  of 
a  physical  bruising  and  beating.  The  streets  were  full 
of  the  news,  and  he  was  stopped  many  times  by  mere 
acquaintances  to  talk  of  it.  In  Savile  Row  he  turned 
into  a  small  literary  club  of  which  he  was  a  member, 
and  wrote  a  letter  to  his  mother.     In  very  affectionate 

266 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

and  amusing  terms  it  begged  her  not  to  take  the  dis- 
appointment too  seriously.  "I  think  I  won't  come 
round  to-night.     But  expect  me  first  thing  to-morrow." 

He  sent  the  note  by  messenger  and  walked  home. 
When  he  reached  Hill  Street  it  was  close  on  eight. 
Outside  the  house  he  suddenly  asked  himself  what  line 
he  was  going  to  take  with  Kitty. 

Kitty,  however,  was  not  at  home.  As  far  as  he  could 
remember  she  had  gone  coaching  with  the  Alcots  into 
Surrey,  Geoffrey  Cliffe,  of  course,  being  of  the  party. 
Presently,  indeed,  he  discovered  a  hasty  line  from  her  on 
his  study  table,  to  say  that  they  were  to  dine  at  Rich- 
mond, and  "Madeleine"  supposed  they  would  get  home 
between  ten  and  eleven.  Not  a  word  more.  Like  all 
strong  men,  Ashe  despised  the  meditations  of  self-pity. 
But  the  involuntary  reflection  that  on  this  evening  of 
humiliation  Kitty  was  not  with  him — did  not  appar- 
ently care  enough  about  his  affairs  and  his  ambitions  to 
be  with  him — brought  with  it  a  soreness  which  had  to 
be  endured. 

The  next  moment,  he  was  inclined  to  be  glad  of  her 
absence.  Such  things,  especially  in  the  first  shock  of 
them,  are  best  faced  alone.  If,  indeed,  there  were  any 
shock  in  the  matter.  He  had  for  some  time  had  his 
own  shrewd  previsions,  and  he  was  aware  of  a  strong 
inner  belief  that  his  defeat  was  but  temporary. 

Probably,  when  she  had  time  to  remember  such  trifles, 
Kitty  would  feel  the  shock  more  than  he  did.  Lady 
Parham  had  certainly  won  this  round  of  the  rubber! 

He  settled  to  his  solitary  dinner,  but  in  the  middle  of 
it  put  down  Kitty's  Aberdeen  terrier,  which,  for  want  of 
other  company,  he  was  stuffing  atrocioxisly,  and  ran  up 

»8  367 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

to  the  nursery.  The  nurse  was  at  her  supper,  and 
Harry  lay  fast  asleep,  a  pretty  little  fellow,  flushed  into  a 
semblance  of  health,  and  with  a  strong  look  of  Kitty. 

Ashe  bent  down  and  put  his  whiskered  cheek  to  the 
boy's.  "Never  mind,  old  man!"  he  murmured,  "better 
luck  next  time!" 

Then  raising  himself  with  a  smile,  he  looked  affection- 
ately at  the  child,  noticed  with  satisfaction  his  bright 
color  and  even  breathing,  and  stole  away. 

He  ran  through  the  comments  of  the  evening  papers 
on  the  new  cabinet  list,  finding  in  only  two  or  three  any 
reference  to  himself,  then  threw  them  aside,  and  seized 
upon  a  pile  of  books  and  reviews  that  were  lying  on  his 
table.  He  carried  them  up  to  the  drawing-room,  hesi- 
tated between  a  theological  review  and  a  new  edition  of 
Horace,  and  finally  plunged  with  avidity  into  the  theo- 
logical review. 

For  some  two  hours  he  sat  enthralled  by  an  able 
summary  of  the  chief  Tiibingen  positions ;  then  suddenly 
threw  himself  back  with  a  stretch  and  a  laugh. 

"Wonder  what  the  chap's  doing  that's  got  my  post! 
Not  reading  theology,  I'll  be  bound." 

The  reflection  followed  that  were  he  at  that  moment 
Home  Secretary  and  in  the  cabinet,  he  would  not  proba- 
bly be  reading  it  either — nor  left  to  a  solitary  evening. 
Friends  would  be  dropping  in  to  congratulate — the 
modern  equivalent  of  the  old  "  turba  clientium." 

As  his  thoughts  wandered,  the  drawing-room  clock 
struck  eleven.  He  rose,  astonished  and  impatient. 
Where  was  Kitty  ? 

By  midnight  she  had  not  arrived.  Ashe  heard  the 
butler  moving  in  the  hall  and  summoned  him. 

268 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"There  may  have  been  some  mishap  to  the  coach, 
Wilson.  Perhaps  they  have  stayed  at  Richmond.  Any- 
way, go  to  bed.     I'll  wait  for  her  ladyship." 

He  returned  to  his  arm-chair  and  his  books,  but  soon 
drew  Kitty's  couvre-pied  over  him  and  went  to  sleep. 

When  he  awoke,  daylight  was  in  the  room.  "What 
has  happened  to  them?"  he  asked  himself,  in  a  sudden 
anxiety. 

And  amid  the  silence  of  the  dawn  he  paced  up  and 
down,  a  prey  for  the  first  time  to  black  depression.  He 
was  besieged  by  memories  of  the  last  two  months,  their 
anxieties  and  quarrels — the  waste  of  time  and  oppor- 
tunity— the  stabs  to  feeling  and  self-respect.  Once  he 
found  himself  groaning  aloud,  "Kitty!     Kitty!" 

When  this  huge,  distracting  London  was  left  behind, 
when  he  had  her  to  himself  amid  the  Scotch  heather  and 
birch,  should  he  find  her  again — conquer  her  again — • 
as  in  the  exquisite  days  after  their  marriage  ?  He 
thought  of  Cliffe  with  a  kind  of  proud  torment,  disdain- 
ing to  be  jealous  or  afraid.  Kitty  had  amused  herself — • 
had  tested  her  freedom,  his  patience,  to  the  utmost. 
Might  she  now  be  content,  and  reward  him  a  little  for  a 
self-control,  a  philosophy,  which  had  not  been  easy! 

A  French  novel  on  Kitty's  little  table  drew  his  atten- 
tion. He  thought  not  without  a  discomfortable  humor 
of  what  a  French  husband  would  have  made  of  a  similar 
situation — recalling  the  remark  of  a  French  acquaint- 
ance on  some  case  illustrating  the  freedom  of  English 
wives.  "  II  y  a  un  element  turc  dans  le  mari  frangais,  qui 
nous  rendrait  ces  moeurs-la  impossibles!" 

A  la  bonne  hciirc!  Let  the  Frenchman  keep  up  his 
seraglio  standards  as  he  pleased.    An  Englishman  trusts 

2O9 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

both  his  wife  and  his  daughter — scorns,  indeed,  to  con- 
sider whether  he  trusts  them  or  no!  And  who  comes 
worst  off  ?  Not  the  EngUshman — if,  at  least,  we  are  to 
beheve  the  French  novel  on  the  French  menage! 

He  paced  thus  up  and  down  for  an  hour,  defying  his' 
unseen  critics — his  mother — his  own  heart. 

Then  he  went  to  bed  and  slept  a  little.  But  with  the 
post  next  morning  there  was  no  letter  from  Kitty.  There 
might  be  a  hundred  explanations  of  that.  Yet  he  felt  a 
sudden  need  of  caution. 

"Her  ladyship  comes  up  this  morning  by  train,"  he 
said  to  Wilson,  as  though  reading  from  a  note.  "There 
seems  to  have  been  a  mishap." 

Then  he  took  a  hansom  and  drove  to  the  Alcots. 

"Is  Mrs.  Alcot  at  home?"  he  asked  the  butler.  "Can 
I  have  an  answer  to  this  note?" 

"Mrs.  Alcot  has  been  in  her  room  since  yesterday 
morning,  sir.  She  was  taken  ill  just  before  the  coach  was 
coming  round,  and  the  horses  had  to  be  sent  back.  But 
the  doctor  last  night  hoped  it  would  be  nothing  serious." 

Ashe  turned  and  went  home.  Then  Kitty  was  not 
with  Madeleine  Alcot — not  on  the  coach!  Where  was 
she,  and  with  whom? 

He  shut  himself  into  his  library  and  fell  to  wondering, 
in  bewilderment,  what  he  had  better  do.  A  tide  of  rage 
and  agony  was  mounting  within  him.  How  to  master 
it — and  keep  his  brain  clear! 

He  was  sitting  in  front  of  his  writing-table  staring  at 
the  floor,  his  hands  hanging  before  him,  when  the  door 
opened  and  shut.  He  turned.  There,  with  her  back  to 
the  door,  stood  Kitty.     Her  aspect  startled  him  to  his 

270 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

feet.  She  looked  at  him,  trembhng — her  little  face 
haggard  and  white,  with  a  touch  of  something  in  it  which 
had  blurred  its  youth. 

"William!"  She  put  both  her  hands  to  her  breast,  as 
though  to  support  herself.  Then  she  flew  forward. 
"William!  I  have  done  nothing  wrong — nothing — 
nothing!     William — look  at  me!" 

He  sternly  put  out  his  hand,  protecting  himself. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice — 
"  and  with  whom  ?" 

Kitty  fell  into  a  chair  and  burst  into  wild  tears. 


XIII 

THERE  was  silence  for  a  few  moments  except  for 
Kitty's  crying.  Ashe  still  stood  beside  his  writing- 
table,  his  hand  resting  upon  it,  his  eyes  on  Kitty.  Once 
or  twice  he  began  to  speak,  and  stopped.  At  last  he 
said,  with  obvious  difficulty: 

"It's  cruel  to  keep  me  waiting,  Kitty." 

"  I  sent  you  a  telegram  first  thing  this  morning."  The 
voice  was  choked  and  passionate. 

"I  never  got  it." 

"  Horrid  little  fiend!"  cried  Kitty,  sitting  up  and  dash- 
ing back  her  hair  from  her  tear-stained  cheeks.  "  I  gave 
a  boy  half  a  crown  this  morning  to  be  at  the  station  with 
it  by  eight  o'clock.  And  I  couldn't  possibly  either  write 
or  telegraph  last  night — it  was  too  late." 

"Where  were  you?"  said  Ashe,  slowly.  "I  went  to 
the  Al cots'  this  morning,  and — " 

"■ — the  butler  told  you  Madeleine  was  in  bed?  So 
she  is.  She  was  ill  yesterday  morning.  There  was  no 
coach  and  no  party.     I  went  with  Geoffrey." 

Kitty  held  herself  erect;  her  eyes,  from  which  the 
tears  were  involuntarily  dropping,  were  fixed  on  her 
husband. 

"Of  course  I  guessed  that,"  said  Ashe. 

"It  was  Geoffrey  brought  me  the  news — here,  just  as 
I  was  starting  to  go  to  the  Alcots'.     Then  he  said  he  had 

272 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

something  to  read  me — and  it  would  be  delicious  to  go  to 
Pangboume — spend  the  day  on  the  river — and  come 
back  from  Windsor — at  night — by  train.  And  I  had  a 
horrid  headache — and  it  was  so  hot — and  you  were  at  the 
office" — her  lip  quivered — "and  I  wanted  to  hear 
Geoffrey's  poems — and  so — " 

She  interrupted  herself,  and  once  more  broke  down — 
hiding  her  face  against  the  chair.  But  the  next  moment 
she  felt  herself  roughly  drawn  forward,  as  Ashe  knelt 
beside  her. 

"  Kitty! — look  at  me!  That  man  behaved  to  3^ou  like 
a  villain?" 

She  looked  up — she  saw  the  handsome,  good-humored 
face  transformed — and  wrenched  herself  away. 

"He  did,"  she  said,  bitterly — "like  a  villain."  She 
began  to  twist  and  torment  her  handkerchief  as  Ashe 
had  seen  her  do  once  before,  the  small  white  teeth  pressed 
upon  the  lower  lip — then  suddenly  she  turned  upon  him — 

"I  suppose  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  story?" 

All  Kitty  in  the  words!  Her  frankness,  her  daring, 
and  the  impatient,  realistic  tone  she  was  apt  to  impose 
upon  emotion — they  were  all  there. 

Ashe  rose  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down. 

"Tell  me  your  part  in  it,"  he  said,  at  last — "and  as 
little  of  that  fellow  as  may  be." 

Kitty  was  silent.  Ashe,  looking  at  her,  saw  a  curious 
shade  of  reverie,  a  kind  of  dreamy  excitement  steal  over 
her  face. 

"Go  on,  Kitty!"  he  said,  sharply.  Then,  restraining 
himself,  he  added,  with  all  his  natural  courtesy — "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Kitty,  but  the  sooner  we  get  through  with 
this  the  better." 

273 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  mist  in  which  her  expression  had  been  for  a 
moment  wrapped  fell  away.     She  flushed  deeply. 

"I  told  you  I  had  done  nothing  vile!"  she  said,  pas- 
sionately.    "Did  you  believe  me?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  shock  of  challenge  and  reply. 

"Those  things  are  not  to  be  asked  between  you  and 
me,"  he  said,  with  vehemence,  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 
She  just  touched  it— proudly.  Then  she  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"The  day  was — just  like  other  days.  He  read  me  his 
poems — in  a  cool  place  we  found  under  the  bank.  I 
thought  he  was  rather  absurd  now  and  then — and  dif- 
ferent from  what  he  had  been.  He  talked  of  our  going 
away — and  his  not  seeing  me — and  how  lonely  he  was. 
And  of  course  I  was  awfully  sorry  for  him.  But  it  was 
all  right  till—" 

She  paused  and  looked  at  Ashe. 

"You  remember  the  inn  near  Hamel  Weir — a  few 
miles  from  Windsor — that  lonely  little  place." 

Ashe  nodded. 

"We  dined  there.  Afterwards  we  were  to  row  to 
Windsor  and  come  home  by  a  train  about  ten.  We 
finished  dinner  early.  By-the-way,  there  were  two  other 
people  there — Lady  Edith  Manley  and  her  boy.  They 
had  rowed  down  from  somewhere — " 

"Did  Lady  Edith—" 

"Yes — she  spoke  to  me.  She  was  going  back  to  town 
— to  the  Holland  House  party—" 

"Where  she  probably  met  mother?" 

"She  did  meet  her!"  cried  Kitty.  She  pointed  to  a 
letter  which  she  had  thrown  down  as  she  entered. 
"Your  mother  sent  round  this  note  to  me  this  morn- 

274 


The    Marriage    o^  William    Ashe 

ing — to  ask  when  I  should  be  at  home.  And  Wilson  sent 
word —  There!  Of  course  I  know  she  thinks  I'm 
capable  of  anything." 

She  looked  at  him,  defiant,  but  very  miserable  and 
pale. 

"Go  on,  please,"  said  Ashe. 

"We  finished  dinner  early.  There  was  a  field  behind 
the  inn,  and  then  a  wood.  We  strolled  into  the  wood, 
and  then  Geoffrey — well,  he  went  mad!     He — " 

She  bit  her  lip  fiercely,  struggling  for  composure — 
and  words. 

"He  proposed  to  you  to  throw  me  over?"  said  Ashe, 
as  white  as  she. 

With  a  sudden  gesture  she  held  out  her  arms — like  a 
piteous  child. 

"Oh!  don't  stand  there — and  look  at  me  like  that — I 
can't  bear  it." 

Ashe  came — unwillingly.  She  perceived  the  reluc- 
tance, and  with  a  flaming  face  she  motioned  him  back, 
while  she  controlled  herself  enough  to  pour  out  her 
story.  Presently  Ashe  was  able  to  reconstruct  with 
tolerable  clearness  what  had  occurred.  Clifl'e,  intoxi- 
cated by  the  long  day  of  intimacy  and  of  solitude,  by 
Kitty's  beauty  and  Kitty's  folly,  aware  that  parting 
was  near  at  hand,  and  trusting  to  the  wildness  of  Kitty's 
temperament,  had  suddenly  assumed  the  language  of 
the  lover — and  a  lover  by  no  means  uncertain  of  his 
ultimate  answer.  So  long  as  they  understood  each 
other — that,  indeed,  for  the  present,  was  all  he  asked. 
But  she  must  know  that  she  had  broken  off  his  mar- 
riage with  Mary  Lyster,  and  reopened  in  his  nature  all  the 
old  founts  of  passion  and  of  storm.    It  had  been  her  sov- 

275 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ereign  will  that  he  should  love  her ;  it  had  been  achieved. 
For  her  sake  —  knowing  himself  for  the  seared  and 
criminal  being  that  he  was — for  Ashe's  sake — he  had 
tried  to  resist  her  spell.  In  vain.  A  fatal  fusion  of 
their  two  natures  —  imaginations  —  sympathies  —  had 
come  about.  Each  was  interpenetrated  by  the  other; 
and  retreat  was  impossible. 

A  kind  of  sombre  power,  indeed — the  power  of  the 
poet  and  the  dreamer — -seemed  to  have  spoken  from 
Cliffe's  strange  wooing.  He  had  taken  no  particular 
pains  to  flatter  her,  or  to  conceal  his  original  hesitation. 
He  put  her  own  action  in  a  hard,  almost  a  brutal  light. 
It  was  plain  that  he  thought  she  had  treated  her  hus- 
band badly ;  that  he  warned  her  of  a  future  of  treachery 
and  remorse.  At  the  same  time  he  let  her  see  that  he 
could  not  doubt  but  that  she  would  face  it.  They  still 
had  the  last  justifying  cards  in  their  hands — passion,  and 
the  courage  to  go  where  passion  leads.  When  those 
were  played,  they  might  look  each  other  and  the  world 
in  the  face.  Till  then  they  were  but  triflers — mean 
souls — fit  neither  for  heaven  nor  for  hell. 

Ashe's  whole  being  was  soon  in  a  tumult  of  rage 
under  the  sting  of  this  report,  as  he  was  able  to  piece  it 
out  from  Kitty.  But  he  kept  his  self-command,  and  by 
dint  of  it  he  presently  arrived  at  some  notion  of  her  own 
share  in  the  scene.  Horror,  recoil,  disavowal — a  wild 
resentment  of  the  charges  heaped  upon  her,  of  the  piti- 
less interpretation  of  her  behavior  which  broke  from 
those  harsh  lips,  of  the  incredulity  passing  into  some- 
thing like  contempt  with  which  Cliffe  had  endured  her 
wrath  and  received  her  protestations  —  then  a  blind 
flight  through  the  fields  to  the  little  wayside  station, 

276 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

where  she  hoped  to  catch  the  last  train ;  the  arrival  and 
departure  of  the  train  while  she  was  still  half  a  mile  from 
the  line,  and  her  shelter  at  a  cottage  for  the  night;  these 
things  stood  out  plainly,  whatever  else  remained  in  ob- 
scurity. How  far  she  had  provoked  her  own  fate,  and 
how  far  even  now  she  was  delivered  from  the  morbid 
spell  of  Cliffe's  personality,  Ashe  would  not  allow  him- 
self to  ask.  As  she  neared  the  end  of  her  story,  it  was 
as  though  the  great  tempest  wave  in  which  she  had 
been  struggling  died  down,  and  with  a  merciful  rush 
bore  him  to  a  shore  of  deliverance.  She  was  there  be- 
side him;  and  she  was  still  his  own. 

He  had  been  leaning  over  the  side  of  a  chair,  his  chin 
on  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  while  she  told  her 
tale.  It  ended  in  a  burst  of  self-pity,  as  she  remem- 
bered her  collapse  in  the  cottage,  the  impossibilit}'  of 
finding  any  carriage  in  the  small  hamlet  of  which  it  made 
part,  the  faint  weariness  of  the  night — 

"I  never  slept,"  she  said,  piteously.  "I  got  up  at 
eight  for  the  first  train,  and  now  I  feel" — she  fell  back 
in  her  chair,  and  whispered  desolately  with  shut  eyes — 
"as  if  I  should  like  to  die!" 

Ashe  knelt  down  beside  her. 

"It's  my  fault,  too,  Kitty.  I  ought  to  have  held  you 
with  a  stronger  hand.  I  hated  quarrelling  with  you. 
But — oh,  my  dear,  my  dear — " 

She  met  the  cry  in  silence,  the  tears  running  over  her 
cheeks.  Roughly,  impetuously,  he  gathered  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her,  as  though  he  would  once  more  re- 
knit  and  reconsecrate  the  bond  between  them.  She  lay 
passively  against  him,  the  tangle  of  her  fair  hair  spread 
over  his  shoulder — too  frail  and  too  exhausted  for  resi:)onse. 

277 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

"This  won't  do,"  he  said,  presently,  disengaging  him- 
self; "you  must  have  some  food  and  rest.  Then  we'll 
think  what  shall  be  done." 

She  roused  herself  suddenly  as  he  went  to  the  door. 

"Why  aren't  you  at  the  Foreign  Oflfice?" 

"I  sent  a  message  early.  Lawson  came" — Lawson 
was  his  private  secretary — "but  I  must  go  down  in  an 
hour." 

"William!" 

Kitty  had  raised  herself,  and  her  eyes  shone  large  and 
startled  in  the  small,  tear-stained  face. 

"Yes."     He  paused  a  moment. 

"William,  is  the  list  out?" 

"Yes." 

Kitty  tottered  to  her  feet. 

"Is  it  all  right?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  slowly.  "It  doesn't  affect 
me." 

And  then,  without  waiting,  he  went  into  the  hall  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  He  wrote  a  note  to  the 
Foreign  Office  to  say  that  he  should  not  be  at  the  office 
till  the  afternoon,  and  that  important  papers  were  to  be 
sent  up  to  him.  Then  he  told  Wilson  to  bring  wine  and 
sandwiches  into  the  library  for  Lady  Kitty,  who  had  been 
detained  by  an  accident  on  the  river  the  night  before, 
and  was  much  exhausted.  No  visitors  were  to  be  ad- 
mitted, except,  of  course.  Lady  Tranmore  or  Miss 
French. 

When  he  returned  to  the  library  he  found  Kitty  with 
crimson  cheeks,  her  hands  locked  behind  her,  walking  up 
and  down.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  she  motioned  to 
him  imperiously. 

278 


HE    GATHERED    HER    IX    HIS    ARMS 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Shut  the  door,  WilHam.  I  have  something  very  im- 
portant to  say  to  you." 

He  obeyed  her,  and  she  walked  up  to  him  deliberately. 
He  saw  the  fluttering  of  her  heart  beneath  her  white 
dress — the  crushed,  bedraggled  dress,  which  still  in  its 
soft  elegance,  its  small  originalities,  spoke  Kitty  from 
head  to  foot.  But  her  manner  was  quite  calm  and 
collected. 

"William,  we  must  separate!  You  must  send  me 
away." 

He  started. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.  It  is — it  is  intolerable — that  I  should 
ruin  your  life  like  this." 

"Don't,  please,  exaggerate,  Kitty!  There  is  no  ques- 
tion of  ruin.  I  shall  make  my  way  when  the  time  comes, 
and  Lady  Parham  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  it!" 

"No!  Nothing  will  ever  go  well — while  I'm  there — 
like  a  millstone  round  your  neck.  William" — she  came 
closer  to  him — "take  my  advice — do  it!  I  warned  you 
when  you  married  me.  And  now  you  see  —  it  was 
true." 

"You  foolish  child,"  he  answered,  slowly,  "do  you 
think  I  could  forget  you  for  an  hour,  wherever  you 
were?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  steadily,  "I  know  you  would 
forget  me — if  I  wasn't  here.  I'm  sure  of  it.  You're 
very  ambitious,  William — more  than  you  know.  You'll 
soon  care — " 

"More  for  politics  than  for  you?  Another  of  your 
delusions,  Kitty.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  Moreover,  if 
you  will  only  let  me  advise  you — trust  your  husband  a 

279 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

little — think  both  for  him  and  yourself.  I  see  nothing 
either  in  politics  or  in  our  life  together  that  cannot  be 
retrieved." 

He  spoke  with  manly  kindness  and  reasonableness. 
Not  a  trace  of  his  habitvial  indolence  or  indifference. 
Kitty,  listening,  was  conscious  of  the  most  tempestuous 
medley  of  feelings — love,  remorse,  shame,  and  a  strange 
gnawing  desolation.  What  else,  what  better  could  she 
have  asked  of  him?  And  yet,  as  she  looked  at  him,  she 
thought  suddenly  of  the  moonlit  garden  at  Grosville 
Park,  and  of  that  young,  headlong  chivalry  with  which 
he  had  thrown  himself  at  her  feet.  This  man  before 
her,  so  much  older  and  maturer.  counting  the  cost  of 
his  marriage  with  her  in  the  light  of  experience,  and  mag- 
nanimously, resolutely  paying  it — Kitty,  in  a  flash, 
realized  his  personality  as  she  had  never  yet  done,  his 
moral  independence  of  her,  his  separateness  as  a  human 
being.  Her  passionate  self-love  instinctively,  uncon- 
sciously, had  made  of  his  life  the  appendage  of  hers. 
And  now — ?  His  devotion  had  never  been  so  plain,  so 
attested ;  and  all  the  while  bitter,  terrifying  voices  rang 
upon  the  inner  ear,  voices  of  fate,  vague  and  irrevocable. 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  his  table,  trembling 
and  white. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  drawing  her  handkerchief  across 
her  eyes,  with  a  gesture  of  childish  misery,  "it's  all 
been  a — a  horrid  mistake.  Your  mother  was  quite  right. 
Of  course  she  hated  your  marrying  me — and  now — now 
she'll  see  what  I've  done.  I  guess  perfectly  what  she's 
thinking  about  me  to-day!  And  I  can't  help  it — I  shall 
go  on — if  you  let  me  stay  with  you.  There's  a  twist — a 
black  drop  in  me.     I'm  not  like  other  people." 

280 


The    Marriage    of^  William   Ashe 

Her  voice,  which  was  very  quiet,  gave  Ashe  intoler- 
able pain. 

"You  poor,  tired,  starved  child,"  he  said,  kneeling 
down  beside  her.  "Put  your  arms  round  my  neck. 
Let  me  carry  you  up-stairs." 

With  a  sob  she  did  as  she  was  told.  Ashe's  library 
a  comparatively  late  addition  to  the  rambling,  old-fash- 
ioned house,  communicated  by  a  small  staircase  at  the 
back  with  his  dressing-room  above.  He  lifted  the  small 
figure  with  ease,  and  half-way  up-stairs  he  impetuously 
kissed  the  delicate  cheek. 

"I'm  glad  you're  not  Polly  Lyster,  darling!" 

Kitty  laughed  through  her  tears.  Presently  he  de- 
posited her  on  the  large  sofa  in  her  own  room,  and  stood 
beside  her,  panting  a  little. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  said  Kitty,  as  she  nestled  down 
among  the  pillows,  "but  we're  itoiic  of  us  feathers!" 

Her  eyes  were  beginning  to  recover  a  little  of  their 
sparkle.     She  looked  at  him  with  attention. 

"You  look  horribly  tired.  What — what  did  you  do — 
last  night?"     She  turned  away  from  him. 

"I  sat  up  reading  —  then  went  to  sleep  down -stairs. 
I  thought  the  coach  had  come  to  grief,  and  you  were 
somewhere  with  the  Alcots." 

"If  I  had  known  that,"  she  murmured,  "/  might 
have  gone  to  sleep.  Oh,  it  was  so  horrible — the  little 
stuffy  room,  and  the  dirty  blankets."  She  gave  a  shiver 
of  disgust.  "There  was  a  poor  baby,  too,  with  whooping- 
cough.  Lucky  I  had  some  money.  I  gave  the  woman 
a  sovereign.  But  she  wasn't  at  all  nice — she  never 
smiled  once.     I  know  she  thought  I  was  a  bad  lot." 

Then  she  sprang  up. 

281 


The    Marriage   of  William    Ashe 

"Sit  there!"  She  pointed  to  the  foot  of  the  sofa. 
Ashe  obeyed  her. 

"When  did  you  know?" 

"About  the  ministry  ?  Between  six  and  seven.  I  saw 
Lady  Parham  afterwards  driving  in  St.  James's  Street. 
She  never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  her  life  as  the 
bow  she  gave  me." 

Kitty  groaned,  and  subsided  again,  a  little  crumpled 
form  among  her  cushions. 

"Tell  me  the  names." 

Ashe  gave  her  the  list  of  the  ministry.  She  made  one 
or  two  shrewd  or  bitter  comments  upon  it.  He  fully 
understood  that  in  her  inmost  mind  she  was  registering 
a  vow  of  vengeance  against  the  Parhams ;  but  she  made 
no  spoken  threat.  Meanwhile,  in  the  background  of  each 
mind  there  lay  that  darker  and  more  humiliating  fact,  to 
which  both  shrank  from  returning,  while  yet  both  knew 
that  it  must  be  faced. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Blanche  appeared 
with  the  tray  which  had  been  ordered  down-stairs.  She 
glanced  in  astonishment  at  her  mistress. 

"  We  had  an  accident  on  the  river  last  night,  Blanche." 
said  Kitty.  "Come  back  in  half  an  hour.  I'm  Uo 
tired  to  change  just  yet." 

She  kept  her  face  hidden  from  the  maid,  but  when 
Blanche  had  departed,  Ashe  saw  that  her  cheeks  were 
flaming. 

"I  hate  lying!"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  physical 
disgust — "and  now  I  suppose  it  will  be  my  chief  occu- 
pation for  weeks." 

It  was  true  that  she  hated  lying,  and  Ashe  was  well 
aware  of  it.     Of  such  a  battle-stroke,  indeed,  as  she  had 

282 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

played  at  the  ball,  when  her  prompt  falsehood  snatched 
Cliffe  from  Mary  Lyster,  she  was  always  capable.  But 
in  general  her  pride,  her  very  egotism  and  quick  temper 
kept  her  true. 

Perhaps  the  fact  represented  one  of  those  deep  sources 
whence  the  well  of  Ashe's  tenderness  was  fed.  At  any 
rate,  consciously  or  not,  it  was  at  this  moment  one  of  his 
chief  motives  for  not  finding  the  past  intolerable  or  the 
future  without  hope.  He  took  some  wine  and  a  sand- 
wich from  the  tray,  and  began  to  feed  her.  In  the  mid- 
dle, she  pushed  his  hands  away,  and  her  eyes  brimmed 
again  with  tears. 

"Put  it  down,"  she  commanded.  And  when  he  had 
done  so,  she  raised  his  hands  deliberately,  one  after  the 
other,  and  kissed  them,  crying: 

"William! — I  have  been  a  horrible  wife  to  you!" 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Kitty.  You  know  very  well  that 
— till  this  last  business —  And  don't  imagine  that  I 
feel  myself  a  model,  either!" 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  long  sigh.  "Of  course,  you 
ought  to  have  beaten  me." 

He  smiled,  with  an  unsteady  lip. 

"Perhaps  I  might  still  try  it." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Too  late.     I  am  not  a  child  any  more." 

Then  throwing  her  soft  arms  round  his  neck,  she  clung 
to  him,  saying  the  most  adorable  and  poignant  things, 
dissolved,  indeed,  in  a  murmuring  anguish  of  remorse; 
until,  with  the  same  unexpectedness  as  before,  she  again 
disengaged  herself — urging,  insisting  that  he  should  send 
her  away. 

"Let  me  go  and  live  at  Haggart,  baby  and  I."  (Hag- 
''  283 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

gart  was  one  of  the  Tranmore  "places,"  recently  handed 
over  to  the  young  people.)  "You  can  come  and  see  me 
sometimes.  I'll  garden — and  write  books.  Half  the  smart 
women  I  know  write  stories — or  plays.    Why  shouldn't  I  ?" 

"Why,  indeed?  Meanwhile,  madam,  I  take  you  to 
Scotland — next  week." 

"Scotland?"  She  pressed  her  hands  over  her  eyes. 
"'Anywhere — anywhere — out  of  the  world!'" 

"  Kitty!"  Startled  by  the  abandonment  of  her  words, 
Ashe  caught  her  hands  and  held  them.  "Kitty! — you 
regret^" 

"That  man?  Do  I?"  She  opened  her  eyes,  frown- 
ing. "I  loathe  him!  When  I  think  of  yesterday,  I 
could  drown  myself.  If  I  could  pile  the  whole  world 
between  him  and  me — I  would.  But  " —  she  shivered— 
"but  yet — if  he  were  sitting  there — " 

"  You  would  be  once  more  under  the  spell  ?"  said  Ashe, 
bitterly. 

"Spell!"  she  repeated,  with  scorn.  Then  snatching 
her  hands  from  his,  she  threw  back  the  hair  from  her 
temples  with  a  wild  gesture.  "  I  warned  you,"  she  said — 
"I  warned  you." 

"A  man  doesn't  pay  much  attention  to  those  warn- 
ings, Kitty." 

"Then  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  don't  know  what's  wrong 
with  me,"  she  said,  sombrely;  "but  I  remember  saying 
to  you  that  sometimes  my  brain  was  on  fire.  I  seem 
to  be  always  in  a  hurry — in  a  desperate,  desperate 
hurry! — ^to  know  or  to  feel  something — ^while  there  is  still 
time — before  one  dies.  There  is  always  a  passion — al- 
ways an  effort.  More  life — more  life! — even  if  it  lead  to 
pain — and  agony — and  tears." 

284 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

She  raised  her  strange,  beautiful  eyes,  which  had  at 
the  moment  almost  a  look  of  delirium,  and  fixed  them  on 
his  face.  But  Ashe's  impression  was  that  she  did  not 
see  him. 

He  was  conscious  of  the  same  pang,  the  same  sudden 
terror  that  he  had  felt  on  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
evening  when  she  had  talked  to  him  of  the  mask  in 
the  "  Tempest."  He  thought  of  the  Blackwater  stories  he 
had  heard  from  Lord  Grosville.  ''Mad,  my  dear  fellow, 
mad!" — the  old  man's  frequent  comment  ran  through 
his  memory.  Was  there,  indeed,  some  unsound  spot  in 
Kitty  ? 

He  sat  dumb  and  paralyzed  for  a  moment;  then,  re- 
covering himself,  he  said,  as  he  recaptured  the  cold  little 
hands : 

'"More  light,'  Kitty,  was  what  Goethe  said,  in  dying. 
A  better  prayer,  don't  you  think?" 

There  was  a  strong,  even  a  stern  insistence  in  his 
manner  which  quieted  Kitty.  Her  face  as  it  came  back 
to  full  consciousness  was  exquisitely  sweet  and  mourn- 
ful. 

"That's  the  prayer  of  the  calm,''  she  said,  in  a  whis- 
per, "and  my  nature  is  hunger  and  storm.  And  Geof- 
frey Cliffe  is  the  same.  That's  why  I  couldn't  help 
being — " 

She  sprang  up. 

"William,  don't  let's  talk  nonsense.  I  can't  ever  see 
that  man  again.     How's  it  to  be  done?" 

She  moved  up  and  down — all  practical  energy  and 
impatience — her  mood  wholly  altered.  His  own  adapt- 
ed itself  to  hers. 

"For  the  present,  fear  nothing,"  he  said,  dryly.    "  For 
285 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

his  own  sake  Cliffe  will  hold  his  tongue  and  leave  Lon- 
don. And  as  to  the  future — I  can  get  some  message 
conveyed  to  him— by  a  man  he  won't  disregard.  Leave 
it  to  me." 

"You  can't  write  to  him,  William!"  cried  Kitty,  pas- 
sionately. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  he  repeated.  "Then  suppose  you 
take  the  boy — and  Margaret  French — to  Haggart  till 
I  can  join  you?" 

"And  your  mother?"  she  said,  timidly,  coming  to 
stand  beside  him  and  laying  a  hand  on  each  shoul- 
der. 

"Leave  that  also  to  me." 

"How  she'll  hate  the  sight  of  me,"  she  said,  under  her 
breath.  Then,  with  another  tone  of  voice — "  How  long, 
William,  do  you  give  the  government?" 

"Six  months, perhaps — perhaps  less.  I  don't  see  how 
they  can  last  beyond  February." 

"And  then — we'll  fight!"  said  Kitty,  with  a  long 
breath,  smoothing  back  the  hair  from  his  brow. 

"Allow  me,  please,  to  command  the  forces!  Well, 
now  then,  I  must  be  off!"  He  tried  to  rise,  but  she  still 
held  him. 

"Did  you  have  any  breakfast,  William?" 

"I  don't  remember." 

"  Sit  still  and  eat  one  of  my  sandwiches."  She  divided 
one  into  strips,  and  standing  over  him  began  to  feed  him. 
A  knock  at  the  door  arrested  her. 

"Don't  move!"  she  said,  peremptorily,  before  she  ran 
to  open  the  door. 

"Please,  my  lady,"  said  Blanche,  "Lady  Tranmore 
would  like  to  see  you." 

286 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Kitty  started  and  flushed.  She  looked  round  uncer- 
tainly at  Ashe. 

"Ask  her  ladyship  to  come  up,"  said  Ashe,  quietly. 

The  maid  departed. 

"Feed  me  if  you  want  to,  Kitty,"  said  Ashe,  still 
seated. 

Kitty  returned,  her  breath  hurried,  her  step  wavering. 
She  looked  doubtfully  at  Ashe — then  her  eyes  sparkled — 
as  she  understood.  She  dropped  on  her  knees  beside 
him,  kissing  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  against  which  her 
cheek  was  pressed — in  a  passion  of  repentance. 

He  bent  towards  her,  touching  her  hair,  murmuring 
over  her.  His  mind  meanwhile  was  torn  with  feelings 
which,  so  to  speak,  observed  each  other.  This  thing 
which  had  happened  was  horribly  serious — important. 
It  might  easily  have  wrecked  two  lives.  Had  he  dealt 
with  it  as  he  ought — made  Kitty  feel  the  gravity  of  it  ? 

Then  the  optimist  in  him  asked  impatiently  what  was 
"the  good  of  exaggerating  the  damned  business "  ?  That 
fellow  has  got  his  lesson — could  be  driven  headlong  out 
of  his  life  and  Kitty's  henceforward.  And  how  could  he 
doubt  the  love  shown  in  this  clinging  penitence,  these 
soft  kisses?  How  would  the  Turk  theory  of  marriage, 
please,  have  done  any  better?  Kitt}'  had  had  her  own 
wild  way.  No  fiat  from  without  had  bound  her;  but 
love  had  brought  her  to  his  feet.  There  was  something 
in  him  which  triumphed  alike  in  her  revolt  and  her  sub- 
mission. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  cool  drawing-room  to  which  the 
green  persiennes  gave  a  pleasant  foreign  look.  Lady 
Tranmore  had  been  waiting  for  the  maid's  return.     She 

287 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

shrank  from  every  sound  in  the  house;  from  her  own 
reflection  in  Kitty's  French  mirrors;  from  her  own 
thoughts  most  of  all. 

Lady  Edith  Manley — at  Holland  House — liad  been 
the  most  innocent  of  gossips.  A  little  lady  who  did  no 
wrong  herself — and  thought  no  wrong  of  others ;  as  white- 
minded  and  unsuspicious  as  a  convent  child.  "Poor 
Lady  Kitty!  Something  seemed  to  have  gone  wrong 
with  the  Alcots'  coach,  and  they  were  somehow  divided 
from  all  their  party.  I  can't  remember  exactly  what  it 
was  they  said,  but  Mr.  Cliffe  was  confident  they  would 
catch  their  train.  Though  my  boy — you  remember  my 
boy?  they've  just  put  him  in  the  eight! — thought  they 
were  running  it  rather  fine." 

Then,  five  minutes  later,  in  the  supper-room,  Lady 
Tranmore  had  run  across  Madeleine  Alcot's  husband, 
who  had  given  her  in  passing  the  whole  story  of  the 
frustrated  expedition — ^Mrs.  Alcot's  chill,  and  the  de- 
spatch of  Cliffe  to  Hill  Street.  "Horrid  bore  to  have  to 
put  it  off!  Hope  he  got  there  in  time  to  stop  Lady  Kitty 
getting  ready.     Oh,  thanks,  Madeleine's  all  right." 

And  then  no  more,  as  the  rush  of  the  crowd  swept 
them  apart. 

After  that,  sleep  had  wholly  deserted  Lady  Tranmore — 
if,  indeed,  after  the  publication  of  the  cabinet  list  in  the 
afternoon,  and  William's  letter  following  upon  it,  any 
had  been  still  possible.  And  in  the  early  morning  she 
had  sent  her  note  to  Kitty — a  ballon  d'essai,  despatched 
in  a  horror  of  great  fear. 

"Her  ladyship  has  not  yet  returned."  The  message 
from  Hill  Street,  delivered  by  the  footman's  indifferent 
mouth,  struck  Lady  Tranmore  with  trembling. 

288 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Where  is  William?"  she  said  to  herself ,  in  anguish. 
"I  must  find  him — ^but — what  shall  I  say  to  him?" 
Then  she  went  up-stairs,  and,  without  calling  for  her 
maid,  put  on  her  walking  things  with  shaking  hands. 

She  slipped  out  unobserved  by  her  household,  and 
took  a  hansom  from  the  corner  of  Grosvenor  Street.  In 
the  hansom  she  carefully  drew  down  her  veil,  with  the 
shrinking  of  one  on  whom  disgrace — the  long  pursuing, 
long  expected — ^has  seized  at  last.  All  the  various  facts, 
statements,  indications  as  to  Kitty's  behavior,  which 
through  the  most  diverse  channels  had  been  flowing 
steadily  towards  her  for  weeks  past,  were  now  surging 
through  her  mind  and  memory — a  grievous,  damning 
host.  And  every  now  and  then,  as  she  caught  the 
placards  in  the  streets,  her  heart  contracted  anew.  Her 
son,  her  William,  in  what  should  have  been  the  heyday 
of  his  gifts  and  powers,  baffled,  tripped  up,  defeated! — by 
his  own  wife,  the  selfish,  ungrateful,  reckless  child  on 
whom  he  had  lavished  the  undeserved  treasures  of  the 
most  generous  and  untiring  love.  And  had  she  not  only 
checked  or  ruined  his  career — was  he  to  be  also  dis- 
honored, struck  to  the  heart? 

She  could  scarcely  stand  as  she  rang  the  bell  at  Hill 
Street,  and  it  was  only  with  a  great  effort  that  she  could 
ask  her  question: 

"  Is  Mr.  Ashe  at  home  ?" 

"Mr.  Ashe,  my  lady,  is,  I  believe,  just  going  out,"  said 
Wilson.  "Her  ladyship  arrived  just  about  an  hour  ago, 
and  that  detained  him." 

Elizabeth  betrayed  nothing.  The  training  of  her  class 
held  good. 

"  Are  they  in  the  library  ?"  she  asked — "or  up-stairs  ?" 

289 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Wilson  replied  that  he  believed  her  ladyship  was  in 
her  room,  and  Mr.  Ashe  with  her. 

"Please  ask  Mr.  Ashe  if  I  can  see  him  for  a  few  min- 
utes." 

Wilson  disappeared,  and  Lady  Tranmore  stood  mo- 
tionless, looking  round  at  William's  books  and  tables. 
She  loved  everything  that  his  hand  had  touched,  every 
sign  of  his  character — the  prize  books  of  his  college  days, 
the  pictures  on  the  wall,  many  of  which  had  descended 
from  his  Eton  study,  the  photographs  of  his  favorite 
hunter,  the  drawing  she  herself  had  made  for  him  of  his 
first  pony. 

On  his  writing-table  lay  a  despatch-box  from  the 
Foreign  Office.  Lady  Tranmore  turned  away  from  it. 
It  reminded  her  intolerably  of  the  shock  and  defeat  of  the 
day  before.  During  the  past  six  months  she  had  become 
more  rejoicingly  conscious  than  ever  before  of  his 
secret,  deepening  ambition,  and  her  own  heart  burned 
with  the  smart  of  his  disappointment.  No  one  else, 
however,  should  guess  at  it  through  her.  No  sooner  had 
she  received  his  letter  from  the  club  than,  after  many 
weeks  of  withdrawal  from  society,  she  had  forced  herself 
to  go  to  the  Holland  House  party,  that  no  one  might  say 
she  hid  herself,  that  no  one  might  for  an  instant  suppose 
that  any  hostile  act  of  such  a  man  as  Lord  Parham,  or 
any  malice  of  that  low-minded  woman,  could  humiliate 
her  son  or  herself. 

Suddenly  she  saw  Kitty's  gloves — Kitty's  torn  and 
soiled  gloves — lying  on  the  floor.  She  clasped  her 
trembling  hands,  trying  to  steady  herself.  Husband 
and  wife  were  together.  What  tragedy  was  passing 
between  them? 

2QQ 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Of  course  there  might  have  been  an  accident;  her 
thoughts  might  be  all  mistake  and  illusion.  But  Lady 
Tranmore  hardly  allowed  herself  to  encourage  the  alter- 
native of  hope.  It  was  like  Kitty's  audacity  to  have 
come  back.  Incredible! — unfathomable! — like  all  she 
did. 

"  Her  ladyship  says,  my  lady,  would  you  please  go  up 
to  her  room?" 

The  message  was  given  in  Blanche's  timid  voice. 
Lady  Tranmore  started,  looked  at  the  girl,  longed  to 
question  her,  and  had  not  the  courage.  She  followed 
mechanically,  and  in  silence.  Could  she,  must  she  face 
it?  Yes — for  her  son's  sake.  She  prayed  inwardly 
that  she  might  meet  the  ordeal  before  her  with  Christian 
strength  and  courage. 

The  door  opened.  She  saw  two  figures  in  the  pretty, 
bright-colored  room,  William  sat  astride  upon  a  chair 
in  front  of  Kitty,  who,  like  some  small  mother-bird, 
hovered  above  him,  holding  what  seemed  to  be  a  tiny 
strip  of  bread-and-butter,  which  she  was  dropping  with 
dainty  deliberation  into  his  mouth.  Her  face,  in  spite 
of  the  red  and  swollen  eyes,  was  alive  with  fun,  and 
Ashe's  laugh  reflected  hers.  The  domesticity,  the  inti- 
mate affection  of  the  scene — before  these  things  Eliza- 
beth Tranmore  stood  gasping. 

"Dearest  mother!"  cried  Ashe,  starting  up. 

Kitty  turned.  At  sight  of  Lady  Tranmore  she  hung 
back;  her  smiles  departed;  her  lip  quivered. 

"  William!" — she  pursued  him  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "I — I  can't — I'm  afraid.  If  mother  ever 
means  to  speak  to  me  again — come  and  tell  me." 

291 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

And,  hiding  her  face,  Kitty  escaped  like  a  whirlwind. 
The  dressing-room  door  closed  behind  her,  and  mother 
and  son  were  left  alone. 

"Mother!"  said  Ashe,  coming  up  to  her  gayly,  both 
hands  out-stretched.  "Ask  me  nothing,  dear.  Kitty 
has  been  a  silly  child — but  things  will  go  better  now. 
And  as  for  the  Parhams — what  does  it  matter? — come 
and  help  me  send  them  to  the  deuce!" 

Lady  Tranmore  recoiled.  For  once  the  good-humor 
of  that  handsome  face — pale  as  the  face  was — seemed  to 
her  an  offence — nay,  a  disgrace.  That  what  had  hap- 
pened had  been  no  mere  contretemps ,  no  mere  accident 
of  trains  and  coaches,  was  plain  enough  from  Kitty's 
eyes — from  all  that  William  did  not  say,  no  less  than 
from  what  he  said.  And  still  this  levity!— this  incon- 
ceivable levity!  Was  it  true,  as  she  knew  was  said, 
that  William  had  no  high  sense  of  honor,  that  he  failed 
in  delicacy  and  dignity  ? 

In  reality,  it  was  the  same  cry  as  the  Dean's — upon 
another  and  smaller  occasion.  But  in  this  case  it  was 
unspoken.  Lady  Tranmore  dropped  into  a  chair,  one 
hand  abandoned  to  her  son,  the  other  hiding  her  face. 
He  talked  fast  and  tenderly,  asking  her  help — neither  of 
them  quite  knew  for  what — her  advice  as  to  the  move  to 
Haggart — and  so  forth.  Lady  Tranmore  said  little. 
But  it  was  a  bitter  silence ;  and  if  Ashe  himself  failed  in 
indignation,  his  mother's  protesting  heart  supplied  it 
amply. 


PART    III 
DEVELOPMENT 

"'  Es  bildet  ein  Talent  sich  in  der  Stille, 
Sich  ein  Character  in  dam  Strom  der  Welt.' 


XIV 


WHAT  does  Lady  Kitty  do  with  herself  here  ?" 
said  Darrell,  looking  round  him.  He  had  just 
arrived  from  town  on  a  visit  to  the  Ashes,  to  find  the 
Haggart  house  and  garden  completely  deserted,  save 
for  Mrs.  Alcot,  who  was  lounging  in  solitude,  with  a 
cigarette  and  a  novel,  on  the  wide  lawn  which  surround- 
ed the  house  on  three  sides. 

As  he  spoke  he  lifted  a  chair  and  placed  it  beside  her, 
under  one  of  the  cedars  which  made  deep  shade  upon  the 
grass. 

"She  plays  at  Lady  Bountiful,"  said  Mrs.  Alcot. 
"She  doesn't  do  it  well,  but — -" 

" — The  wonder  is,  in  Johnsonian  phrase,  that  she 
should  do  it  at  all.     Anything  else?" 

"I  understand — she  is  writing  a  book — a  novel." 

Darrell  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  long  and 
silently. 

"II  ne  manquait  que  cela,"  he  said — "that  Lady 
Kitty  should  take  to  literature!" 

Mrs.  Alcot    ooked  at  him  rather  sharply. 

"Why  not?  We  frivolous  people  are  a  good  deal 
cleverer  than  you  think." 

The  languid  arrogance  of  the  lady's  manner  was  not 
at  all  unbecoming.     Darrell  made  an  inclination. 

"No  need  to  remind  me,  madam!"  A  recent  exhibi- 
295 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

tion  at  an  artistic  club  of  Mrs.  Alcot's  sketches  had  made 
a  considerable  mark.  "  Very  soon  you  will  leave  us  poor 
professionals  no  room  to  live. 

The  slight  disrespect  of  his  smile  annoyed  his  com- 
panion, but  the  day  was  hot  and  she  had  no  repartee 
ready.  She  only  murmured  as  she  threw  away  her 
cigarette : 

"Kitty  is  much  disappointed  in  the  village." 

"They  are  greater  brutes  than  she  thought?  ' 

"Quite  the  contrary.  There  are  no  poachers — and 
no  murders.  The  girls  prefer  to  be  married,  and  the 
Tranmores  give  so  much  away  that  no  one  has  the  small- 
est excuse  for  starvation.  Kitty  gets  nothing  out  of 
them  whatever." 

"In  the  way  of  literary  material?" 

Mrs.  Alcot  nodded. 

"Last  week  she  was  so  discouraged  that  she  was 
inclined  to  give  up  fiction  and  take  to  journalism." 

"Heavens!     Political?" 

"Oh,  la  haute  politique,  of  course." 

"H'm.  The  wives  of  cabinet  ministers  have  often 
inspired  articles.  I  don't  remember  an  instance  of  their 
writing  them." 

"Well,  Kitty  is  inclined  to  try." 

"With  Ashe's  sanction?" 

"Goodness,  no!  But  Kitty,  as  you  are  aware" — 
Mrs.  Alcot  threw  a  prudent  glance  to  right  and  left — 
"goes  her  own  way.  She  believes  she  can  be  of  great 
service  to  her  husband's  policy." 

Darrell's  lip  twitched. 

"If  you  were  in  Ashe's  position,  would  you  rather 
your  wife  neglected  or  supported  your  political  interests  ?" 

296 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Mrs.  Alcot  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Kitty  made  a  considerable  mess  of  them  last  year." 

"No  doubt.  She  forgot  they  existed.  But  I  think  if 
I  were  Ashe,  I  should  be  more  afraid  of  her  remembering. 
By-the-way — the  glass  here  seems  to  be  at  '  Set  Fair  '  ?" 

His  interrogative  smile  was  not  wholly  good-natured. 
But  mere  benevolence  was  not  what  the  world  asked  of 
Philip  Darrell — even  in  the  case  of  his  old  friends. 

"Astonishing!"  said  Mrs.  Alcot,  with  lifted  brows. 
"  Kitty  is  immensely  proud  of  him — and  immensely 
ambitious.  That,  of  course,  accounts  for  Lord  Par- 
ham's  visit." 

"Lord  Parham!"  cried  Darrell,  bounding  on  his  seat. 
"Lord  Parham! — coming  here?" 

"  He  arrives  to-morrow.  On  his  way  from  Scotland — 
to  Windsor." 

Mrs.  Alcot  enjoyed  the  effect  of  her  communication 
on  her  companion.  He  sat  open-mouthed,  evidently 
startled  out  of  all  self-command. 

"Why,  I  thought  that  Lady  Kitty—" 

"  Had  vowed  vengeance  ?  So,  in  a  sense,  she  has.  It 
is  understood  that  she  and  Lady  Parham  don't  meet, 
except — " 

"On  formal  occasions,  and  to  take  in  the  ground- 
lings," said  Darrell,  too  impatient  to  let  her  finish  her 
sentence.  "Yes,  that  I  gathered.  But  you  mean  that 
Lord  Parham  is  to  be  allowed  to  make  his  peace?" 

Madeleine  Alcot  lay  back  and  laughed. 

"  Kitty  wishes  to  try  her  hand  at  managing  him." 

Darrell  joined  her  in  mirth.  The  notion  of  the 
white-haired,  bullet -headed,  shrewd,  and  masterful 
man  who  at  that  moment  held  the  Premiership  of 
«p  29J' 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

England  managed  by  Kitty,  or  any  other  daughter  of 
Eve — always  excepting  his  wife— must  needs  strike 
those  who  had  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  Lord 
Parham  as  a  delicious  absurdity. 

Suddenly  Darrell  checked  himself,  and  bent  forward. 

"Where — if  I  may  ask — is  the  poet?" 

"Geoffrey?  Somewhere  in  the  Balkans,  isn't  he? — 
making  a  revolution." 

Darrell  nodded. 

"  I  remember.  They  say  he  is  with  the  revolutionary 
committee  at  Marinitza.  Meanwhile  there  is  a  new 
volume  of  poems  out — to-day,"  said  Darrell,  glancing  at 
a  newspaper  thrown  down  beside  him. 

"I  have  seen  it.     The  'portrait'  at  the  end — " 

"Is  Lady  Kitty."     They  spoke  under  their  breaths. 

"Unmistakable,  I  think,"  said  Kitty's  best  friend. 
"As  poetry,  it  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  in  the  book, 
but  the  audacity  of  it!"  She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  a 
half-unwilling,  half-contemptuous  admiration. 

"Has  she  seen  it?" 

Mrs.  Alcot  replied  that  she  had  not  noticed  any  copy 
in  the  house,  and  that  Kitty  had  not  spoken  of  it,  which, 
given  the  Kitty -nature,  she  probably  would  have  done, 
had  it  reached  her. 

Then  they  both  fell  into  reverie,  from  which  Darrell 
emerged  with  the  remark: 

"  I  gather  that  last  year  some  very  important  person 
interfered?" 

This  opened  another  line  of  gossip,  in  which,  however, 
Mrs.  Alcot  showed  herself  equally  well  informed.  It  was 
commonly  reported,  at  any  rate,  that  the  old  Duke  of 
Morecambe.  the  head  of  Lady  Eleanor  Cliffe's  family, 

298 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

the  great  Tory  evangelical  of  the  north,  who  was  a  sort 
of  patriarch  in  English  political  and  aristocratic  life,  had 
been  induced  by  some  undefined  pressure  to  speak  very 
plainly  to  his  kinsman  on  the  subject  of  Lady  Kitty  Ashe. 
Cliffe  had  expectations  from  the  duke  which  were  not 
to  be  trifled  with.  He  had,  accordingly,  swallowed  the 
lecture,  and,  after  the  loss  of  his  election,  had  again  left 
England  with  an  important  newspaper  commission  to 
watch  events  in  the  Balkans. 

"May  he  stay  there!"  said  Darrell.  "Of  course,  the 
whole  thing  was  absurdly  exaggerated." 

"Was  it?"  said  Mrs.  Alcot,  coolly.  "Kitty  richly 
deserved  most  of  what  was  said."  Then — on  his  start — 
"  Don't  misunderstand  me,  of  course.  If  twenty  actions 
for  divorce  were  given  against  Kitty,  I  should  believe 
nothing — nothing!"  The  words  were  as  emphatic  as 
voice  and  gesture  could  make  them.  "But  as  for  the 
tales  that  people  who  hate  her  tell  of  her,  and  will  go  on 
telling  of  her — " 

"They  are  merely  the  harvest  of  what  she  has  sown  ?" 

"Naturally.     Poor  Kitty!" 

Madeleine  Alcot  rested  her  thin  cheek  on  a  still 
frailer  hand  and  looked  pensively  out  into  the  darkness 
of  the  cedars.  Her  tone  was  neither  patronizing  nor 
unkind;  rather,  the  shade  of  ironic  tenderness  which 
it  expressed  suited  the  subject,  and  that  curious  intimacy 
which  had  of  late  sprung  up  between  herself  and  Darrell. 
She  had  begun,  as  we  have  seen,  by  treating  him  de 
haut  en  has.  He  had  repaid  her  with  manner  of  the 
same  type ;  in  this  respect  he  was  a  match  for  any  Arch- 
angel. Then  some  accident — perhaps  the  publication  by 
the  man  of  a  volume  of  essays  which  expressed  to  per- 

299 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

fcction  his  acid  and  embittered  talent — perhaps  a  casual 
meeting  at  a  northern  country-house,  where  the  lady  had 
found  the  man  of  letters  her  only  resource  amid  a  crowd 
of  uncongenial  nonentities — had  shown  them  their  nat- 
ural compatibility.  Both  were  in  a  secret  revolt  against 
circumstance  and  their  own  lives;  but  whereas  the  rea- 
sons for  the  man's  attitude — his  jealousies,  defeats,  and 
ambitions — were  fairly  well  understood  by  the  woman, 
he  was  almost  as  much  in  the  dark  about  her  as  when 
their  friendship  began. 

He  knew  her  husband  slightly — an  eager,  gifted  fellow, 
of  late  years  a  strong  High  Churchman,  and  well  known 
in  a  certain  group  as  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Armagh,  that 
muse — fragile,  austere,  and  beautiful— of  several  great 
men,  and  great  Christians,  among  the  older  generation. 
Mrs.  Alcot  had  her  own  intimates,  generally  men;  but 
she  tired  of  them  and  changed  them  often.  Mr.  Alcot 
spent  part  of  every  year  within  reach  of  the  Cornish 
home  of  Mrs.  Armagh;  and  during  that  time  his  wife 
made  her  round  of  visits. 

Meanwhile  her  thin  lips  were  sealed  as  to  her  own 
affairs.  Certainly  she  made  the  impression  of  an  un- 
happy woman,  and  Darrell  was  convinced  of  some  tragic 
complication.  But  neither  he  nor  any  one  of  whom  he 
had  yet  inquired  had  any  idea  what  it  might  be. 

"By-the-way — where  is  Lady  Kitty? — and  are  there 
many  people  here?" 

Darrell  turned,  as  he  spoke,  to  scrutinize  the  house  and 
its  approaches.  Haggart  Hall  was  a  large  and  common- 
place mansion,  standing  in  the  midst  of  spreading 
"grounds"  and  dull  plantations,  beyond  which  could  be 
sometimes  seen  the  tall  chimneys  of  neighboring  coal- 

300 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

mines.  It  wore  an  air  of  middle-class  Tory  comfort 
which  brought  a  smile  to  Darrell's  countenance  as  he 
surveyed  it. 

"Kitty  is  at  the  Agricultural  Show — with  a  party." 

"Playing  the  great  lady?     What  a  house!" 

"Yes.  Kitty  abhors  it.  But  it  will  do  very  well  for 
the  party  to-morrow." 

"Half  the  county — that  kind  of  thing?" 

"All  the  county  —  some  royalties  —  and  Lord  Par- 
ham." 

"Lord  Parham  being  the  end  and  aim?  I  thought  I 
heard  wheels." 

Mrs.  Alcot  rose,  and  they  strolled  back  towards  the 
house. 

"And  the  party?"  resumed  Darrell. 

"Not  particularly  thrilling.     Lord  Grosville — " 

"Also,  I  presume,  en  gargon." 

Mrs.  Alcot  smiled. 

" — the  Manleys,  Lady  Tranmore,  Miss  French,  the 
Dean  of  Milford  and  his  wife,  Eddie  Helston — ■" 

"That,  I  understand,  is  Lady  Kitty's  undergraduate 
adorer?" 

"It's  no  use  talking  to  you — you  know  all  the  gossip. 
And  some  county  big-wigs,  whose  names  I  can't  re- 
member— come  to  dinner  to-night."  Mrs.  Alcot  stifled 
a  yawn. 

"I  am  very  curious  to  see  how  Ashe  takes  his 
triumph,"  said  Darrell,  as  they  paused  half-way. 

"He  is  just  the  same.  No!"  said  Madeleine  Alcot, 
correcting  herself  —  "no  —  not  quite.  He  meant  to 
triumph,  and  he  knows  that  he  has  done  so." 

"My  dear  lady!"  cried  Darrell — "a  quite  enormous 
301 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

difference!     Ashe  never  took  stock  of  himself  or  his 
prospects  in  his  life  before." 

"Well,  now — ^you  will  find  he  takes  stock  of  a  good 
many  things." 

"Including  Lady  Kitty?" 

His  companion  smiled. 

"  He  won't  let  her  interfere  again." 

"L'homme  propose,"  said  Darrell.  "You  mean  he  has 
grown  ambitious?" 

Mrs.  Alcot  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  cope  with  these 
high  things.  Fanning  herself,  she  languidly  supposed 
that  the  English  political  passion,  so  strong  and  unspent 
still  in  the  aristocratic  families,  had  laid  serious  hold  at 
last  on  William  Ashe.  He  had  great  schemes  of  reform, 
and,  do  what  he  might  to  conceal  it,  his  heart  was  in 
them.  His  wife,  therefore,  was  no  longer  his  occupation, 
but— 

Mrs.  Alcot  hesitated  for  a  word. 

"Scarcely  his  repose?"  laughed  Darrell. 

"I  really  won't  discuss  Kitty  any  more,"  said  Mrs. 
Alcot,  impatiently.  "Here  they  are!  Hullo!  What 
has  Kitty  got  hold  of  now?" 

Three  carriages  were  driving  up  the  long  approach, 
one  behind  the  other.  In  the  first  sat  Kitty,  a  figure 
beside  her  in  the  dress  of  a  nurse,  and  opposite  to  them 
both  an  indistinguishable  bundle,  which  presently  re- 
vealed a  head.  The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  steps. 
Kitty  jumped  down,  and  she  and  the  nurse  lifted  the 
bundle  out.  Footmen  appeared;  some  guests  from  the 
next  carriage  went  to  help;  there  was  a  general  move- 
ment and  agitation,  in  the  midst  of  which  Kitty  and  her 
companions  disappeared  into  the  house. 

302 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Lady  Edith  Manley  and  Lord  Grosville  began  to  cross 
the  lawn. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Alcot,  as  they  con- 
verged. 

"Kitty  ran  over  a  boy,"  said  Lord  Grosville,  in  evi- 
dent annoyance.  "The  rascal  hadn't  a  scratch,  but 
Kitty  must  needs  pick  him  up  and  drive  him  home  with 
a  nurse.  'I  ain't  hurt,  mum,'  says  the  boy.  *  Oh!  but 
you  must  be,'  said  Kitty.  I  offered  to  take  him  to  his 
mother  and  give  him  half  a  crown.  'It's  my  duty  to 
look  after  him,'  says  Kitty.  And  she  lifted  him  up  her- 
self— dirty  little  vagabond! — and  put  him  in  the  car- 
riage. There  were  some  laborers  and  grooms  standing 
near,  and  one  of  them  sang  out,  'Three  cheers  for  Lady 
Kitty  Ashe!'  Such  a  ridiculous  scene  as  you  never 
saw!" 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously. 

"Lady  Kitty  is  always  so  kind,"  said  the  amicable 
Lady  Edith.     "But  her  pretty  dress — I  was  sorry!" 

"Oh  no — only  an  excuse  for  a  new  one,"  said  Mrs. 
Alcot. 

The  Dean  and  Lady  Tranmore  approached — behind 
them  again  Ashe  and  Mrs.  Winston. 

"Well,  old  fellow!"  said  Ashe,  clapping  a  hand  on 
Darrell's  shoulder.  "Uncommonly  glad  to  see  you.  You 
look  as  though  that  damned  London  had  been  squeez- 
ing the  life  out  of  you.     Come  for  a  stroll  before  dinner  ?" 

The  two  men  accordingly  left  the  talkers  on  the  lawn, 
and  struck  into  the  park.  Ashe,  in  a  straw  hat  and  light 
suit,  made  his  usual  impression  of  strength  and  good- 
humor.  He  was  gay,  friendly,  amusing  as  ever.  But 
Darrell  was  not  long  in  discovering  or  imagining  signs  of 

303 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

change.  Any  one  else  would  have  thought  Ashe's  talk 
frankness — nay,  indiscretion— itself.  Darrell  at  once 
divined  or  imagined  in  it  shades  of  official  reserve,  tracts 
of  reticence,  such  as  an  old  friend  had  a  right  to  resent. 

"One  can  see  what  a  personage  he  feels  himself!" 

Yet  Darrell  would  have  been  the  first  to  own  that 
Ashe  had  some  right  to  feel  himself  a  personage.  The 
sudden  revelation  of  his  full  intellectual  power,  and  of 
his  influence  in  the  country,  for  which  the  general  elec- 
tion of  the  preceding  winter  had  provided  the  opportu- 
nity, was  still  an  exciting  memory  among  journalists  and 
politicians.  He  had  gone  into  the  election  a  man  slight- 
ly discredited,  on  whose  future  nobody  took  much 
trouble  to  speculate.  He  had  emerged  from  it — after  a 
series  of  speeches  laying  down  the  principles  and  vindi- 
cating the  action  of  his  party — one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant men  in  England,  with  whom  Lord  Parham  himself 
must  henceforth  treat  on  quasi-equal  terms.  Ashe  was 
now  Home  Secretary,  and,  if  Lord  Parham's  gout  should 
take  an  evil  turn,  there  was  no  saying  to  what  height 
fortune  might  not  soon  conduct  him. 

The  will — the  iron  purpose — with  which  it  had  all 
been  done — that  was  the  amazing  part  of  it.  The  com- 
plete independence,  moreover.  Darrell  imagined  that 
Lord  Parham  must  often  have  regretted  the  small  in- 
trigue by  which  Ashe's  promotion  had  been  barred  in 
the  crisis  of  the  summer.  It  had  roused  an  indolent 
man  to  action,  and  freed  him  from  any  particular  obli- 
gation towards  the  leader  who  had  ill-treated  him. 
Ashe's  campaign  had  not  been  in  all  respects  convenient ; 
but  Lord  Parham  had  had  to  put  up  with  it. 

The    summer   evening   broadened    as    the    two    men 

304 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

sauntered  on  through  the  park,  beside  a  small  stream 
fringed  with  yellow  flags.  Even  the  dingy  Midland 
landscape,  with  its  smoke-blackened  woods  and  lifeless 
grass,  assumed  a  glory  of  great  light;  the  soft,  interlacing 
clouds  parted  before  the  dying  sun;  the  water  received 
the  golden  flood,  and  each  coot  and  water-hen  shone  jet 
and  glossy  in  the  blaze.  A  few  cries  of  birds,  the  dis- 
tant shouts  of  harvesters,  the  rustling  of  the  water-flags 
along  the  stream,  these  were  the  only  sounds — traditional 
sounds  of  English  peace. 

"Jolly,  isn't  it?"  said  Ashe,  looking  round  him — 
"even  this  spoiled  country!  Why  did  we  go  and  stifle 
in  that  beastly  show!" 

The  sensuous  pleasure  and  relaxation  of  his  mood 
communicated  itself  to  Darrell.  They  talked  more 
intimately,  more  freely  than  they  had  done  for  months. 
Darrell's  gnawing  consciousness  of  his  own  meaner 
fortunes,  as  contrasted  with  the  brilliant  and  expanding 
career  of  his  school-friend,  softened  and  relaxed.  He 
almost  forgave  Ashe  the  successes  of  the  winter,  and  that 
subtly  heightened  tone  of  authority  and  self-confidence 
which  here  and  there  bore  witness  to  them  in  the  man- 
ner or  talk  of  the  minister.  They  scarcely  touched  on 
politics,  however.     Both  were  tired,  and  their  talk  drifted 

into  the  characteristic  male  gossip — "What's doing 

now?"  "Do  you  ever  see  So-and-so?"  "You  remem- 
ber that  fellow  at  Univ.?" — and  the  like,  to  the  agree- 
able accompaniment  of  Ashe's  best  cigars. 

So  pleasant  was  the  half-hour,  so  strongly  had  the 
old  college  intimacy  reasserted  itself,  that  suddenly  a 
thought  struck  upward  in  Darrell's  mind.  He  had  not 
9ome  to  Haggart  bent  merely  on  idle  holiday — far  from 

305 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

it.  At  the  moment  he  was  weary  of  hterature  as  a 
profession,  and  sharply  conscious  that  the  time  for  vague 
ambitions  had  gone  by,  A  post  had  presented  itself,  a 
post  of  importance,  in  the  gift  of  the  Home  Office.  It 
meant,  no  doubt,  the  abandonment  of  more  brilliant 
things;  Darrell  was  content  to  abandon  them.  His 
determination  to  apply  for  it  seemed,  indeed,  to  himself 
an  act  of  modesty — almost  of  sacrifice.  As  to  the  tech- 
nical qualifications  required,  he  was  well  aware  there 
might  be  other  men  better  equipped  than  himself.  But, 
after  all,  to  what  may  not  general  ability  aspire — gen- 
eral ability  properly  stiffened  with  interest? 

And  as  to  interest,  when  was  it  ever  to  serve  him  if 
not  now — through  his  old  friendship  with  Ashe  ?  Chival- 
ry towards  a  much-solicited  mortal,  also  your  friend — 
even  the  subtler  self-love — might  have  counselled  silence 
— or  at  least  approaches  more  gradual.  It  had  been  far 
from  his  purpose,  indeed,  to  speak  so  promptly.  But 
here  were  the  hour  and  the  man!  And  there,  in  a  dis- 
tant country  town,  a  woman — whereof  the  mere  exist- 
ence was  unsuspected  by  Darrell's  country-house  ac- 
quaintance— sat  waiting,  in  whose  eyes  the  post  in 
question  loomed  as  a  condition — perhaps  indispensable. 
Darrell's  secret  eagerness  could  not  withstand  the  temp- 
tation. 

So,  with  a  nervous  beginning — "  By-the-way,  I  wished 
to  consult  you  about  a  personal  matter.  Of  course, 
answer  or  not,  as  you  like.  Naturally,  I  imderstand  the 
difficulties!" — the  plunge  was  taken,  and  the  petitioner 
soon  in  full  career. 

After  a  first  start — a  lifted  brow  of  astonishment — 
Ashe  was  uncomfortably  silent — till  suddenly,  in  a  pause 

306 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

of  Darrell's  eloquence,  his  face  changed,  and  with  a 
burst  of  his  old,  careless  freedom  and  affection,  he 
flung  an  arm  along  Darrell's  shoulder,  with  an  impet- 
uous— 

"I  say,  old  fellow — don't — don't  be  a  damned  fool!" 

An  ashen  white  overspread  the  countenance  of  the 
man  thus  addressed.  His  lips  twitched.  He  walked 
on  in  silence.     Ashe  looked  at  him — stammered: 

"Why,  my  dear  Philip,  it  would  be  the  extinguishing 
of  you!" 

Darrell  said  nothing.  Ashe,  still  holding  his  friend 
captive,  descanted  hurriedly  on  the  disadvantages  of  the 
post  "for  a  man  of  your  gifts,"  then — more  cautiously — 
on  its  special  requirements,  not  one  of  which  did  Darrell 
possess — hinted  at  the  men  applying  for  it,  at  the 
scientific  and  professional  influences  then  playing  upon 
himself ,  at  his  strong  sense  of  responsibility — "Too  bad, 
isn't  it,  that  a  duffer  like  me  should  have  to  decide  these 
things  " — and  so  on. 

In  vain.  Darrell  laughed,  recovered  himself,  changed 
the  subject;  but  as  they  walked  quickly  back  to  the 
house,  Ashe  knew,  perchance,  that  he  had  lost  a  friend; 
and  Darrell's  smarting  soul  had  scored  another  reckoning 
against  a  day  to  come. 

As  Hiey  neared  the  house  they  found  a  large  group 
still  lingering  on  the  lawn,  and  Kitty  just  emerging  from 
a  garden  door.  She  came  out  accompanied  by  the  hand- 
some Cambridge  lad  who  had  been  her  partner  at  Lady 
Crashaw's  dance.  He  was  evidently  absorbed  in  her 
society,  and  they  approached  in  high  spirits,  laughing  and 
teasing  each  other. 

307 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  Well,  Kitty,  how's  the  bruised  one  ?"  said  Ashe,  as  he 
sank  into  a  chair  beside  Mrs.  Alcot. 

"Doing  finely,"  said  Kitty.  "I  shall  send  him  home 
to-night." 

"Meanwhile,  have  you  put  him  up  in  my  dressing- 
room?     I  only  ask  for  information." 

"There  wasn't  another  corner,"  said  Kitty. 

"There!"  Ashe  appealed  to  gods  and  men.  "How 
do  you  expect  me  to  dress  for  dinner?" 

"  Oh,  now,  William,  don't  be  tiresome!"  said  Kitty,  im- 
patiently. "  He  was  bruised  black  and  blue  " — ("  Serve 
him  right  for  getting  in  the  way,"  grumbled  Lord 
Grosville)  —  "and  nurse  and  I  have  done  him  up  in 
arnica." 

She  came  to  stand  by  Ashe,  talking  in  an  undertone 
and  as  fast  as  possible.  The  little  Dean,  who  never 
could  help  watching  her,  thought  her  more  beautiful — 
and  wilder — than  ever.  Her  eyes — it  was  hardly  enough 
to  say  they  shone — they  glittered — in  her  delicate  face ; 
her  gestures  were  more  extravagant  than  he  remembered 
them;  her  movements  restlessness  itself. 

Ashe  listened  with  patience — then  said: 

"I  can't  help  it,  Kitty — you  really  must  have  him 
removed." 

"Impossible!"  she  said,  her  cheek  flaming. 

"I'll  go  and  talk  to  Wilson;  he'll  manage  it,"  said 
Ashe,  getting  up. 

Kitty  pursued  him,  arguing  incessantly. 

He  lounged  along,  turning  every  now  and  then  to  look 
at  her,  smiling  and  demurring,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head, 

"You  see  the  difference,"  said  Mrs.  Alcot,  in  Darrell's 
308 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ear.  "  Last  year  Kitty  would  have  got  her  way.  This 
year  she  won't." 

Darrell  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"These  domesticities  should  be  kept  out  of  sight, 
don't  you  think?" 

Madeleine  Alcot  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  walk?"  she  said. 

Darrell  made  a  little  face. 

"The  great  man  was  condescending." 

Madeleine  Alcot's  face  was  still  interrogative. 

"A  touch  of  the  folie  des  grandeurs  ?" 

"Well,  who  escapes  it?"  said  Darrell,  bitterly. 

Most  of  the  party  had  dispersed.  Only  Lady  Tran- 
more  and  Margaret  French  were  on  the  lawn.  Margaret 
was  writing  some  household  notes  for  Kitty;  Lady 
Tranmore  sat  in  meditation,  with  a  book  before  her  which 
she  was  not  reading.  Miss  French  glanced  at  her  from 
time  to  time.  Ashe's  mother  was  beginning  to  show  the 
weight  of  years  far  more  plainly  than  she  had  yet  done. 
In  these  last  three  years  the  face  had  perceptibly  altered ; 
so  had  the  hair.  The  long  strain  of  nursing,  and  that 
pathetic  change  which  makes  of  the  husband  who  has 
been  a  woman's  pride  and  shelter  her  half-conscious  de- 
pendent, had,  no  doubt,  left  deep  marks  upon  a  beauty 
which  had  so  long  resisted  time.  And  yet  Margaret 
French  believed  it  was  rather  with  her  son  than  with  her 
husband  that  the  constant  and  wearing  anxiety  of  Lady 
Tranmore's  life  should  be  connected.  All  the  ambition, 
the  pride  of  race  and  history  which  had  been  disap- 
pointed in  her  husband  had  poured  themselves  into  her 
devotion  to  her  son.     She  lived  now  for  his  happiness 

309 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

and  success.     And  both  were  constantly  threatened  by 
the  personality  and  the  presence  of  Kitty. 

Such,  at  least,  as  Margaret  French  well  knew,  was 
the  inmost  persuasion — fast  becoming  a  fanaticism — of 
Ashe's  mother.  William  might,  indeed,  for  the  moment 
have  triumphed  over  the  consequences  of  Kitty's  bygone 
behavior.  But  the  reckless,  untamed  character  was 
there  still  at  his  side,  preparing  Heaven  knew  what  pit- 
falls and  catastrophes.  Lady  Tranmore  lived  in  fear. 
And  under  the  outward  sweetness  and  dignity  of  her  man- 
ner was  there  not  developing  something  worse  than  fear 
— that  hatred  which  is  one  of  the  strange  births  of  love  ? 

If  so,  was  it  just?  There  were  many  moments  when 
Margaret  would  have  indignantly  denied  it. 

It  was  true,  indeed,  that  Kitty's  eccentricity  seemed 
to  develop  with  every  month  that  passed.  The  preced- 
ing winter  had  been  marked,  first  by  a  mad  folly  of 
table-turning — involving  the  pursuit  of  a  particular 
medium  whose  proceedings  had  ultimately  landed  him 
in  the  dock;  then  by  a  headlong  passion  for  hunting, 
accompanied  by  a  series  of  new  flirtations,  each  more 
unseemly  than  its  predecessor,  as  it  seemed  to  Lady 
Tranmore.  Afterwards — during  the  general  election — 
a  political  phase!  Kitty  had  most  imfortunately  dis- 
covered that  she  could  speak  in  public,  and  had  fallen  in 
love  with  the  sound  of  her  own  voice.  In  Ashe's  own 
contest,  her  sallies  and  indiscretions  had  already  begun 
to  do  mischief  when  Lady  Tranmore  had  succeeded  in 
enticing  her  to  London  by  the  bait  of  a  French  clair- 
voyante,  with  whom  Kitty  nightly  tempted  the  gods 
who  keep  watch  over  the  secrets  of  fate — till  William's 
poll  had  been  declared. 

310 


The  Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

All  this  was  deplorably  true.  And  yet  no  one  could 
say  that  Kitty  in  this  checkered  year  had  done  her  hus- 
band much  harm.  Ashe  was  no  longer  her  blind  slave; 
and  his  career  had  carried  him  to  heights  with  which 
even  his  mother  might  have  been  satisfied.  Sometimes 
Margaret  was  inclined  to  think  that  Kitty  had  now  less 
influence  with  him  and  his  mother  more  than  was  the 
just  due  of  each.  She — the  younger  woman — felt  the 
tragedy  of  Ashe's  new  and  growing  emancipation. 
Secretly — often — she  sided  with  Kitty! 

"Margaret!" 

The  voice  was  Kitty's.  She  came  running  out,  her 
pale-pink  skirts  flying  round  her.  "Have  you  seen  the 
babe?" 

Margaret  replied  that  he  and  his  nurse  were  just  in 
sight. 

Kitty  fled  over  the  lawn  to  meet  the  child's  peram- 
bulator. She  lifted  him  out,  and  carried  him  in  her  arms 
towards  Margaret  and  Lady  Tranmore. 

"  Isn't  it  piteous  ?"  said  Margaret,  under  her  breath,  as 
the  mother  and  child  approached.  Lady  Tranmore  gave 
her  a  sad,  assenting  look. 

For  during  the  last  six  months  the  child  had  shown 
signs  of  brain  mischief — a  curious  apathy,  broken  now 
and  then  by  fits  of  temper.  The  doctors  were  not  en- 
couraging. And  Kitty  varied  between  the  most  pas- 
sionate attempts  to  rouse  the  child's  failing  intelligence 
and  days — even  weeks — when  she  could  hardly  bring 
herself  to  see  him  at  all. 

She  brought  him  now  to  a  seat  beside  Lady  Tranmore. 
She  had  been  trying  to  make  him  take  notice  of  a  new 

311 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

toy.     But  the  child  looked  at  her  with  blank  and  glassy 
eyes,  and  the  toy  fell  from  his  hand. 

"He  hardly  knows  me,"  said  Kitty,  in  a  low  voice  of 
misery,  as  she  clasped  her  hands  round  the  baby  of  three, 
and  looked  into  his  face,  as  though  she  would  drag  from 
it  some  sign  of  mind  and  recognition. 

But  the  blue  eyes  betrayed  no  glimmer  of  response, 
till  suddenly,  with  a  gesture  as  of  infinite  fatigue,  the 
child  threw  itself  back  against  her,  laying  its  fair  head 
upon  her  breast  with  a  long  sigh. 

Kitty  gave  a  sob,  and  bent  over  him,  kissing — and 
kissing  him. 

"Dear  Kitty!"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  much  moved. 
"I  think — partly — he  is  tired  with  the  heat." 

Kitty  shook  her  head. 

"Take  him!"  she  said  to  the  nurse — "take  him!  I 
can't  bear  it." 

The  nurse  took  him  from  her,  and  Kitty  dried  her 
tears  with  a  kind  of  fierceness. 

"There  is  the  post!"  she  said,  springing  up,  as  though 
determined  to  throw  off  her  grief  as  quickly  as  possible, 
while  the  nurse  carried  the  child  away. 

The  footman  brought  the  letters  across  the  lawn. 
There  were  some  for  Lady  Tranmore  and  for  Mar- 
garet French.  In  the  general  opening  and  reading  that 
ensued,  neither  lady  noticed  Kitty  for  a  while.  Sud- 
denly Margaret  French  looked  up.  She  saw  Kitty  sit- 
ting motionless  with  a  book  on  her  lap,  a  book  of  which 
the  wrapper  lay  on  the  grass  beside  her.  Her  finger 
kept  a  page;  her  eyes,  full  of  excitement,  were  fixed  on 
the  distant  horizon  of  the  park;  the  hurried  breathing 
was  plainly  noticeable  under  the  thin  bodice. 

312 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Kitty — time  to  dress!"  said  Margaret,  touching  her. 

Kitty  rose,  without  a  word  to  either  of  them,  and 
walked  quickly  away,  her  hands,  still  holding  the  book, 
dropped  in  front  of  her,  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"Oh,  Kitty!"  cried  Margaret,  in  laughing  protest, 
as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  litter  of  Kitty's  letters, 
some  of  them  still  unopened,  which  lay  scattered  on  the 
grass,  as  they  had  fallen  unheeded  from  her  lap. 

But  the  little  figure  in  the  trailing  skirts  was  already 
out  of  hearing. 

At  dinner  Kitty  was  in  her  wildest  spirits — a  sparkling 
vision  of  diamonds  and  lace,  much  beyond — so  it  seemed 
to  Lord  Grosville — what  the  occasion  required.  "  Dress- 
ed out  like  a  comedy  queen  at  a  fair!"  was  his  inward 
comment,  and  he  already  rolled  the  phrases  in  which  he 
should  describe  the  whole  party  to  his  wife.  Like  the 
expected  Lord  Parham,  he  was  there  in  sign  of  semi- 
reconciliation.  Nothing  would  have  induced  Kitty  to 
invite  her  aunt;  the  memory  of  a  certain  Sunday  was 
too  strong.  On  her  side,  Lady  Grosville  averred  that 
nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  sit  at  Kitty's  board. 
As  to  this,  her  husband  cherished  a  certain  scepticism. 
However,  her  resolution  was  not  tried.  It  was  Ashe,  in 
fact,  who  had  invited  Lord  Grosville,  and  Lord  Gros- 
ville, who  was  master  in  his  own  house,  and  had  no  mind 
to  break  with  William  Ashe  just  as  that  gentleman's 
company  became  even  better  worth  having  than  usual, 
had  accepted  the  invitation. 

But  his  patience  was  sorely  tried  by  Kitty.  After 
dinner  she  insisted  on  table-turning,  and  Lord  Grosville 
was  dragged  breathless  through  the  drawing-room  win- 

3^3 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

dow,  in  pursuit  of  a  table  that  broke  a  chair  and  finally- 
danced  upon  a  flower-bed.  His  theology  was  harassed 
by  these  proceedings  and  his  digestion  upset.  The 
Dean  took  it  with  smiles ;  but  then  the  Dean  was  a  Lati- 
tudinarian. 

Afterwards  Kitty  and  the  Cambridge  boy — Eddie 
Helston — performed  a  duologue  in  French  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  company.  Whatever  could  be  understood 
in  it  had  better  not  have  been  understood — such  at  least 
was  Lord  Grosville's  impression.  He  wondered  how 
Ashe — who  laughed  immoderately — could  allow  his  wife 
to  do  such  things;  and  his  only  consolation  was  that,  for 
once,  the  Dean — whose  fancy  for  Kitty  was  ridiculous! 
— seemed  to  be  disturbed.  He  had  at  any  rate  walked 
away  to  the  library  in  the  middle  of  the  piece.  Kitty 
was,  of  course,  making  a  fool  of  the  boy  all  through. 
Any  one  could  see  that  he  was  head  over  ears  in  love 
with  her.  And  she  seemed  to  have  all  sorts  of  mys- 
terious understandings  with  him.  Lord  Grosville  was 
certain  they  passed  each  other  notes,  and  made  assigna- 
tions. And  one  night,  on  going  up  himself  to  bed  very 
late,  he  had  actually  come  upon  the  pair  pacing  up  and 
down  the  long  passage  after  midnight! — Kitty  in  such 
a  negligee  as  only  an  actress  should  wear,  with  her  hair 
about  her  ears — and  the  boy  out  of  his  wits  and  off  his 
balance,  as  any  one  could  see.  Kitty,  indeed,  had  been 
quite  unabashed — trying  even  to  draw  hi)n  into  their 
unseemly  talk  about  some  theatrical  nonsense  or  other; 
and  such  blushes  as  there  were  had  been  entirely  left 
to  the  boy. 

He  supposed  there  was  no  harm  in  it.  The  lad  was 
not  a  Geoffrey  Cliffe,  and  it  was  no  doubt  Kitty's  mad 

314       - 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

love  of  excitement  which  impelled  her  to  these  defiances 
of  convention.  But  Ashe  should  put  his  foot  down; 
there  was  no  knowing  with  a  creature  so  wild  and  so 
lovely  where  these  things  might  end.  And  after  the 
scandal  of  last  year — 

As  to  that  scandal,  Lord  Grosville,  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  by  no  means  endorsed  the  lurid  imaginations  of 
his  wife.  Kitty  and  Cliffe  had  certainly  behaved  badly 
at  Grosville  Park — that  is  to  say,  judged  by  any  ordinary 
standards.  And  the  gossip  of  the  season  had  apparently 
gathered  and  culminated  round  some  incident  of  a  graver 
character  than  the  rest — though  nobody  precisely  knew 
what  it  might  be.  But  it  seemed  that  Ashe  had  at  last 
asserted  himself;  and  if  in  Kitty's  abrupt  departure  to 
the  country,  and  the  sudden  dissolution  of  the  intimacy 
between  herself  and  Cliffe,  those  who  loved  her  not  had 
read  what  dark  things  they  pleased,  her  uncle  by  mar- 
riage was  quite  content  to  see  in  it  a  mere  disciplinary 
act  on  the  part  of  the  husband. 

Lord  Grosville  believed  that  some  rumors  as  to 
Cliffe's  private  character  had  entered  into  the  decisive 
defeat- — in  a  constituenc}/  largely  Nonconformist — which 
had  befallen  that  gentleman  at  the  polls.  Poor  Lady 
Tranmore!  He  saw  her  anxieties  in  her  face,  and  was 
truly  sorry  for  her.  At  the  same  time,  inveterate  gossip 
that  he  was,  he  regarded  her  with  a  kind  of  hunger.  If 
she  only  would  talk  things  over  with  him!  So  far,  how- 
ever, she  had  given  him  very  little  opening.  If  she  ever 
did,  he  would  certainly  advise  her  to  press  something 
like  a  temporary  separation  on  her  son.  Why  should  not 
Lady  Kitty  be  left  at  Haggart  when  the  next  session 
began?     Lord    Grosville,    who   had   been    a   friend    of 

315 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Melbourne's,  recalled  the  early  history  of  that  great 
man.  When  Lady  Caroline  Lamb  had  become  too 
troublesome  to  a  political  husband,  she  had  been  sent  to 
Brocket.  And  then  Mr.  Lamb  was  only  Irish  Secretary 
— without  a  seat  in  the  cabinet.  How  was  it  possible  to 
take  an  important  share  in  steering  the  ship  of  state,  and 
to  look  after  a  giddy  wife  at  the  same  time  ? 

Ashe  and  his  guests  lingered  late  below-stairs.  When, 
somewhere  about  one  o'clock,  he  entered  his  dressing- 
room,  he  was  suddenly  alarmed  by  a  smell  of  burning. 
It  seemed  to  come  from  Kitty's  room.  He  knocked 
hastily  at  her  door. 

"Kitty!" 

No  answer.     He  opened  the  door,  and  stood  arrested. 

The  room  was  in  complete  darkness  save  for  some 
weird  object  in  the  centre  of  it,  on  which  a  fire  was 
burning,  sending  up  a  smoke  which  hung  about  the  room. 
Ashe  recognized  an  old  Spanish  brazier  of  beaten  copper, 
standing  on  iron  feet,  which  had  been  a  purchase  of  his 
own  in  days  when  he  trifled  with  bric-a-brac.  Upon  it, 
a  heap  of  some  light  material,  which  fluttered  and 
crackled  as  it  burned,  was  blazing  and  smoking  away, 
while  beside  it — her  profile  set  and  waxen  amid  the  drifts 
of  smoke,  her  fair  hair  blanched  to  whiteness  by  the 
strange  illumination  from  below,  and  all  her  slight  form, 
checkered  with  the  light  and  shade  of  the  fire,  drawn 
into  a  curve  of  watchfulness,  vindictive  and  intent — 
stood  Kitty. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  fortune  are  you  doing,  Kitty  ?" 
cried  Ashe. 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  approached.  Then  he 
316 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

saw  that  in  the  centre  of  the  pile,  and  propped  up  against 
some  small  pieces  of  wood,  a  photograph  of  Geoffrey 
Cliffe  was  consuming  slow  and  dismally.  The  fire  had 
just  sent  a  line  across  his  cheek.  The  lower  limbs  were 
already  charred,  and  the  right  hand  was  shrivelling. 

All  around  were  letters,  mostly  consumed;  while  at 
the  top  of  the  pile  above  the  culprit's  head,  stuck  in  a 
cleft  stick,  and  just  beginning  to  be  licked  by  the  flames, 
was  what  seemed  to  be  a  leaf  torn  out  of  a  book.  The 
book  from  which  it  had  apparently  been  wrenched  lay 
open  on  a  chair  near. 

j  Kitty  drew  a  long  breath  as  Ashe  came  near  her. 
'.  "Keep  off!"  she  said— "don't  touch  it!" 

"You  little  goose!"  cried  Ashe  —  "what  are  you 
about?" 

"Burning  a  coward  in  effigy,"  said  Kitty,  between 
her  teeth. 

Ashe  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"I  wish  to  God  you'd  forget  the  creature,  instead  of 
flattering  him  with  these  attentions!" 

Kitty  made  no  reply,  but  as  she  drew  the  fire  together 
Ashe  captured  her  hand. 

"What's  he  been  doing  now,  Kitty?" 

"There  are  his  poems,"  said  Kitty,  pointing  to  the 
chair.     "The  last  one  is  about  me." 

"May  I  be  allowed  to  see  it?" 

"It  isn't  there." 

"Ah!  I  see.  You've  topped  the  pile  with  it.  With 
your  leave,  I'll  delay  its  doom."  He  snatched  the  leaf 
from  its  stick,  and  bending  down  read  it  by  the  light  of 
the  burning  paper.  Kitty  watched  him,  frowning,  her 
hand  on  her  hip,  the  white  wrap  she  wore  over  her  night- 

317 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

dress  twining  round  her  in  close  folds — a  slender,  brood- 
ing sorceress,  some  Canidia  or  Simaetha,  interrupted  in 
her  ritual  of  hate. 

But  Ashe  was  in  no  mood  for  literary  reminiscence. 
His  lip  was  contemptuous,  his  brow  angry  as  he  re- 
placed the  leaf  in  its  cleft  stick,  whither  the  flames  im- 
mediately pursued  it. 

"Wretched  stuff,  and  damned  impertinence! — that's 
all  there  is  to  say.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Kitty,  don't  let 
any  one  suppose  you  mind  the  thing — for  an  instant!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  strange  eyes.  "But  if  I  do 
mind  it?" 

His  face  darkened  to  the  shade  of  hers.  "  Does  that 
mean — that  you  still  think  of  him  —  still  wish  to  see 
him?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Kitty,  slowly.  The  fire  had  died 
away.  Nothing  but  a  few  charred  remnants  remained  in 
the  brazier.  Ashe  lit  the  gas,  and  disclosed  a  tragic 
Kitty,  flushed  by  the  audacity  of  her  last  remark.  He 
took  her  masterfully  in  his  arms. 

" That  was  bravado,"  he  said,  kissing  her.  "You  love 
me!  And  I  may  be  a  poor  stick,  but  I'm  worth  a  good 
many  Cliffes.  Defy  me  — and  I'll  write  you  a  better 
poem,  too!" 

The  color  leaped  afresh  in  Kitty's  cheek.  She  pushed 
him  away,  and,  holding  him,  perused  his  handsome, 
scornful  face,  and  all  the  manly  strength  of  form  and 
attitude.     Her  own  lids  wavered. 

"What  a  silly  scene!"  she  said,  and  fell — a  little,  soft, 
yielding  form — into  his  arms. 


XV 


THE  church  clock  of  Haggart  village  had  just  struck 
half-past  six.  A  white,  sunny  mist  enwrapped  the 
park  and  garden.  Voices  and  shouts  rang  through  the 
mist;  little  could  yet  be  seen,  but  the  lawns  and  the  park 
seemed  to  be  pervaded  with  bustle  and  preparation,  and 
every  now  and  then  as  the  mist  drifted  groups  of  work- 
men could  be  distinguished,  marquees  emerged,  flags 
floated,  and  carts  laden  with  benches  and  trestle-tables 
rumbled  slowly  over  the  roads  and  tracks  of  the  park. 

The  house  itself  was  full  of  gardeners,  arranging 
banks  of  magnificent  flowers  in  the  hall  and  drawing- 
rooms,  and  superintended  by  the  head  gardener,  a  person 
of  much  greater  dignity  than  Ashe  himself,  who  swore  at 
any  underling  making  a  noise,  as  though  the  slumbers  of 
the  "quality"  in  the  big  house  overhead  and  the  danger 
of  disturbing  them  were  the  dearest  interests  of  a  bur- 
dened life. 

As  to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  at  any  rate,  there  was 
no  need  for  caution.  The  clocks  of  the  house  had  barely 
followed  the  church  clock  in  striking  the  half -hour  when 
the  workmen  on  the  ground  floor  saw  Lady  Kitty  come 
down-stairs  and  go  through  the  drawing-room  window 
into  the  garden.  There  she  gave  her  opinion  on  the 
preparations,  pushing  on  afterwards  into  the  park, 
where  she  astounded  the  various  contractors  and  their 

319 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

workmen  by  her  appearance  at  such  an  hour,  and  by 
the  vigor  and  decision  of  her  orders.  Finally  she  left 
the  park  behind,  just  as  its  broad,  scorched  surfaces  be- 
gan everywhere  to  shake  off  the  mist,  and  entered  one 
of  the  bordering  woods. 

She  had  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and,  when  she  had 
found  for  herself  a  mossy  seat  amid  the  roots  of  a  great 
oak,  she  unpacked  it.  It  contained  a  mass  of  written 
pages,  some  fresh  scribbling-paper,  ink  and  pens,  and 
a  small  portfolio.  When  they  were  all  lying  on  the  moss 
beside  her,  Kitty  turned  over  the  sheets  with  a  loving 
hand,  reading  here  and  there. 

"It  is  good!"  she  said  to  herself.     "I  vow  it  is!" 

Dipping  her  pen  in  the  ink,  she  began  upon  correc- 
tions. The  sun  filtered  through  the  thick  leafage  over- 
head, touching  her  white  dress,  her  small  shoes,  and  the 
masses  of  her  hair.  She  wore  a  Leghorn  garden-hat, 
tied  with  pink  ribbons  under  her  chin,  and  in  her  morn- 
ing freshness  and  daintiness  she  looked  about  seventeen. 
The  hours  of  sleep  had  calmed  the  restlessness  of  the  wide, 
brown  eyes ;  they  were  full  now  of  gentleness  and  mirth. 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  come?" 

She  looked  up  and  listened.  And  as  she  did  so,  her 
eyes  and  sense  were  seized  with  the  beauty  of  the  wood. 
The  mystery  of  early  solitary  hours  seemed  to  be  still 
upon  it ;  both  in  the  sunlight  and  the  shadow  there  was 
a  magic  unknown  to  the  later  day.  In  a  clearing  before 
her  spread  a  lake  of  willow-herb,  of  a  pure  bright  pink, 
hemmed  in  by  a  golden  shore  of  ragwort.  The  splash 
of  color  gave  Kitty  a  passionate  delight. 

"  Dear,  dear  world!"  She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  it 
in  a  childish  greeting. 

320 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Then  the  joy  died  sharply  from  her  eyes.  "How 
many  years  left — to  enjoy  it  in — ^before  one  dies — or 
one's  heart  dies?" 

Invariably,  now,  her  moments  of  sensuous  pleasure 
ended  in  this  dread  of  something  beyond — of  a  sudden 
drowning  of  beauty  and  delight — of  a  future  unknown 
and  cruel,  coming  to  meet  her,  like  some  armed  assassin 
in  a  narrow  path. 

William!  When  it  came  could  William  save  her? 
"William  is  a.  darling  I"  she  said  to  herself,  her  face  full 
of  yearning. 

As  for  that  other — it  gave  her  an  intense  pleasure  to 
think  of  the  flames  creeping  up  the  form  and  face  of  the 
photograph.  Should  she  hear,  perhaps,  in  a  week  or  two 
that  he  had  been  seized  with  some  mysterious  illness, 
like  the  witch-victims  of  old  ?  A  shiver  ran  through  her, 
a  thrill  of  repentance — till  the  bitter  lines  of  the  poem 
came  back  to  memory — lines  describing  a  woman  with 
neither  the  courage  for  sin  nor  the  strength  for  virtue,  a 
"light  woman  "  indeed,  whom  the  great  passions  passed 
eternally  by,  whom  it  was  a  humiliation  to  court  and  a 
mere  weakness  to  regret.  Then  she  laughed,  and  began 
again  with  passionate  zest  upon  the  sheets  before  her. 

A  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  on  the  wood-path. 
She  half  rose,  smiling. 

The  branches  parted,  and  Darrell  appeared.  He 
paused  to  survey  the  oread  vision  of  Lady  Kitty. 

"Am  I  not  to  the  minute ?"  He  held  up  his  watch  in 
front  of  her. 

"So  you  got  my  note?" 

"Certainly.  I  was  immensely  flattered."  He  threw 
himself  dov/n  on  the  moss  beside  her,  his  sallow,  long- 

321 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

chiimed  face  and  dark  eyes  toned  to  a  morning  cheerful- 
ness, his  dress  much  fresher  and  more  exact  than  usual. 
"  But  he  is  one  of  the  men  who  look  so  much  better  in 
their  old  clothes!"  thought  Kitty. 

"Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you,  Lady  Kitty?"  he  re- 
sumed, smiling. 

"I  wanted  your  advice,"  said  Kitty — not  altog-ether 
sure,  now  that  he  was  there  beside  her,  that  she  did 
want  it. 

"About  your  literary  work?" 

She  threw  him  a  quick  glance. 

"Do  you  know?  How  do  you  know?  I  have  been 
writing  a  book!" 

"So  I  imagined — " 

"And — and — "  She  broke  now  into  eagerness,  bend- 
ing forward,  "I  want  you  to  help  me  get  it  published. 
It  is  a  deadly  secret.     Nobody  knows — " 

"Not  even  William?" 

"  No  one,"  she  repeated.  "  And  I  can't  tell  you  about 
it,  or  show  you  a  line  of  it,  unless  you  vow  and  swear  to 
me—" 

"Oh!  I  swear,"  said  Darrell,  tranquilly — "I  swear." 

Kitty  looked  at  him  doubtfully  a  moment — then  re- 
sumed : 

"  I  have  written  it  at  all  sorts  of  times — when  William 
was  away  —  in  the  middle  of  the  night — out  in  the 
woods.  Nobody  knows.  You  see  " — her  little  fingers 
plucked  at  the  moss — "  I  have  a  good  many  advantages. 
If  people  want  'Society'  with  a  big  S,  I  can  give  it 
them!" 

"Naturally,"  said  Darrell. 

"And  it  always  amuses  people — doesn't  it?" 
322 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Kitty  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees  and  looked 
at  him  with  candor. 

"Does  it?"  said  Darrell.  "It  has  been  done  a  good 
deal." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Kitty,  impatiently,  "mine's  not 
the  proper  thing.  You  don't  imagine  I  should  try  and 
write  like  Thackeray,  do  you?  Mine's  real  people — real 
things  that  happened — with  just  the  names  altered." 

"Ah!"  said  Darrell,  sitting  up — "that  sounds  exciting. 
Is  it  libellous?" 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I  want  to  know,"  said  Kitty, 
slowly.  "Of  course,  I've  made  a  kind  of  story  out  of  it. 
But  you'd  have  to  be  a  great  fool  not  to  guess.  I've  put 
myself  in,  and — " 

"And  Ashe?" 

Kitty  nodded.  "All  the  novels  that  are  written 
about  politics  nowadays — except  Dizzy's — are  such  non- 
sense, aren't  they  ?  I  just  wanted  to  describe — from  the 
inside — how  a  real  statesman  " — she  threw  up  her  head 
proudly — "lives,  and  what  he  does." 

"Excellent  subject,"  said  Darrell.  "Well — anybody 
else?" 

Kitty  flushed.     "You'll  see,"  she  said,  tmcertainly. 

Darrell's  involuntary  smile  was  hidden  by  a  bunch  of 
honeysuckle  at  which  he  was  sniffing.  "May  I  look?" 
he  asked,  stretching  out  a  hand  for  the  sheets. 

She  pushed  them  towards  him,  half  unwilling,  half 
eager,  and  he  began  to  turn  them  over.  Apparently  it 
had  a  thread  of  story — both  slender  and  extravagant. 
And  on  the  thread —  Hullo! — here  was  the  fancy  ball; 
he  pounced  upon  it.  A  portrait  of  Lady  Parham —  Ye 
powers!  he  chuckled  as  he  read.     On  the  next  page  the 

323 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer — snub-nosed  parvenu  and 
Puritan — admirably  caught.  Further  on  a  speech  of 
Ashe's  in  the  House — with  caricature  to  right  and  cari- 
cature to  left.  .  .  .  Ah!  the  poet! — at  last!  He  bent  over 
the  page  till  Kitty  coughed  and  fidgeted,  and  he  thought 
it  best  to  hurry  on.  But  it  was  war,  he  perceived — 
open,  undignified,  feminine  war.  On  the  next  page,  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury — with  Lady  Kitty's  views  on 
the  Athanasian  Creed!  Heavens!  what  a  book!  Next, 
Royalty  itself,  not  too  respectfully  handled.  Then  Ashe 
again — Ashe  glorified,  Ashe  explained,  Ashe  intrigued 
against,  and  Ashe  triumphant — everywhere  the  centre 
of  the  stage,  and  everywhere,  of  course,  all  unknown  to 
the  author,  the  fool  of  the  piece.  Political  indiscretions 
also,  of  the  most  startling  kind,  as  coming  from  the  wife 
of  a  cabinet  minister.  Allusions,  besides,  scattered 
broadcast,  to  the  scandals  of  the  day — material  as  far 
as  he  could  see  for  a  dozen  libel  actions.  And  with  it 
all,  much  fantastic  ability,  flashes  of  wit  and  romance, 
enough  to  give  the  book  wings  beyond  its  first  personal 
audience — enough,  in  fact,  to  secure  to  all  its  scandalous 
matter  the  widest  possible  chance  of  fame. 

"Well!" 

He  rolled  over  on  his  elbows,  and  lay  staring  at  the 
sheets  before  him — dumb.     What  was  he  to  say? 

A  thought  struck  him.  As  far  as  he  could  perceive, 
there  was  an  empty  niche. 

"And  Lord  Parham?" 

A  smile  of  mischief  broadened  on  Kitty's  lips. 

"That'll  come,"  she  said — and  checked  herself.  Dar- 
rell  bowed  his  face  on  his  hands  and  laughed,  unseen. 
To  what  sacrificial  rite  was  the  unconscious  victim  hur- 

324 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

rying — at  that  very  moment — in  the  express  train  which 
was  to  land  him  at  Haggart  Station  that  afternoon  ? 

"Well!"  said  Kitty,  impatiently — "what  do  you 
think?     Can  you  help  me?" 

Darrell  looked  up. 

"You  know,  Lady  Kitty,  that  book  can't  be  published 
like  that.     Nobody  would  risk  it." 

"Well,  I  suppose  they'll  tell  me  what  to  cut  out." 

"Yes,"  said  Darrell,  slowly,  caught  by  many  reflec- 
tions— "no  doubt  some  clever  fellow  will  know  how  near 
the  wind  it's  possible  to  sail.  But,  anyway,  trim  it  as 
you  like,  the  book  will  make  a  scandal." 

"  Will  it  ?"  Kitty's  eyes  flashed.  She  sat  up  radiant, 
her  breath  quick  and  defiant. 

"I  don't  see,"  he  resumed,  "how  you  can  publish  it 
without  consulting  Ashe." 

Kitty  gave  a  cry  of  protest. 

"No,  no,  no!  Of  course  he'd  disapprove.  But  then 
— he  soon  forgives  a  thing,  if  he  thinks  it  clever.  And  it 
is  clever,  isn't  it? — some  of  it.  He'd  laugh — and  then 
it  would  be  all  right.  He'd  never  pay  out  his  enemies, 
but  he  couldn't  help  enjoying  it  if  some  one  else  did — 
could  he?"     She  pleaded  like  a  child. 

"'No  need  to  forgive  them,'"  murmured  Darrell,  as 
he  rolled  over  on  his  back  and  put  his  hat  over  his  eyes — 
"for  you  would  have  'shot  them  all.'" 

Under  the  shelter  of  his  hat  he  tried  to  think  himself 
clear.  What  really  were  her  motives  ?  Partly,  no  doubt, 
a  childish  love  of  excitement — partly  revenge  ?  The 
animus  against  the  Parhams  was  clear  in  every  page. 
Cliffe,  too,  came  badly  out  of  it — a  fantastic  Byronic 
mixture  of  libertine  and  cad.     Lady  Kitty  had  better 

325 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

beware!  As  far  as  he  knew,  Cliffe  had  never  yet  been 
struck,  with  impunity  to  the  striker. 

If  these  precious  sheets  ever  appeared,  Ashe's  posi- 
tion would  certainly  be  shaken.  Poor  wretch!  —  en- 
deavoring to  pursue  a  serious  existence,  yoked  to  such 
an  impish  sprite  as  this!  His  own  fault,  after  all.  That 
first  night,  at  Madame  d'Estr^es',  was  not  her  madness 
written  in  her  eyes  ? 

"Now  tell  me.  Lady  Kitty" — he  roused  himself  to 
look  at  her  with  some  attention — "what  do  you  want  me 
to  do?" 

"To  find  me  a  publisher,  and  " — she  stooped  towards 
him  with  a  laughing  shyness  —  "to  get  me  some 
money." 

"Money!" 

"I've  been  so  awfully  extravagant  lately,"  said  Kitty, 
frankly.  "  Something  really  will  have  to  be  done.  And 
the  book's  worth  some  money,  isn't  it?" 

"A  good  deal,"  said  Darrell.  Then  he  added,  with 
emphasis — "I  really  can't  be  responsible  for  it  in  any 
way,  Lady  Kitty." 

"Of  course  not.  I  will  never,  never  say  I  told  you! 
But,  you  see,  I'm  not  literary — I  don't  know  in  the  least 
how  to  set  about  it.  If  you  would  just  put  me  in  com- 
munication?" 

Darrell  pondered.  None  of  the  well-known  pub- 
lishers, of  course,  would  look  at  it.  But  there  were 
plenty  of  people  who  would — and  give  Lady  Kitty  a 
large  sum  of  money  for  it,  too. 

What  part,  however,  could  he — Darrell — play  in  such 
a  transaction  ? 

"I  am  bound  to  warn  you,"  he  said,  at  last,  looking 
326 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

up,  "that  your  husband  will  probably  strongly  disap- 
prove this  book,  and  that  it  may  do  him  harm." 

Kitty  bit  her  lip. 

"But  if  I  tell  nobody  who  wrote  it — and  you  tell 
nobody?" 

"Ashe  would  know  at  once.  Everybody  would 
know." 

"William  would  know,"  his  companion  admitted,  un- 
willingly. "But  I  don't  see  why  anybody  else  should. 
You  see,  I've  put  myself  in — I've  said  the  most  shocking 
things!" 

Darrell  replied  that  she  would  not  find  that  device  of 
much  service  to  her. 

"However — I  can  no  doubt  get  an  opinion  for  you." 

Kitty,  all  delight,  thanked  him  profusely. 

"You  shall  have  the  whole  of  it  before  you  go — Fri- 
day, isn't  it?"  she  said,  eagerly  gathering  it  up. 

Darrell  was  certainly  conscious  of  no  desire  to  burden 
himself  with  the  horrid  thing.  But  he  was  rarely  able  to 
refuse  the  request  of  a  pretty  and  fashionable  woman, 
and  it  flattered  his  conceit  to  be  the  sole  recipient  of 
what  might  very  well  turn  out  to  be  a  political  secret  of 
some  importance.  Not  that  he  meant  to  lay  himself  open 
to  any  just  reproach  whatever  in  the  matter.  He  would 
show  it  to  some  fitting  person — to  pacify  Lady  Kitty — 
write  a  letter  of  strong  protest  to  her  afterwards — and 
wash  his  hands  of  it.  What  might  happen  then  was  not 
his  business. 

Meanwhile  his  inner  mind  was  full  of  an  acrid  debate 
which  turned  entirely  upon  his  interview  with  Ashe  of  the 
day  before.  No  doubt,  as  an  old  friend,  aware  of  Lady 
Kitty's  excitable  character,  he  might  have  felt  it  his  duty 

327 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

to  go  straight  to  Ashe,  coute  que  coute,  and  warn  him  of 
what  was  going  on.  But  what  encouragement  had  been 
given  him  to  play  so  Quixotic  a  part  ?  Why  should  he 
take  any  particular  thought  for  Ashe's  domestic  peace, 
or  Ashe's  pubhc  place?  What  consideration  had  Ashe 
shown  for  him?     "Tu  I'as  voulu,  Georges  Dandin!" 

So  it  ended  in  his  promising  to  take  the  MS.  to  London 
with  him,  and  let  Lady  Kitty  know  the  result  of  his  in- 
quiries. Kitty's  dancing  step  as  they  returned  to  the 
house  betrayed  the  height  of  her  spirits. 

A  rumor  flew  round  the  house  towards  the  middle  of 
the  day  that  Harry,  the  Uttle  heir,  was  worse.  Kitty  did 
not  appear  at  luncheon,  and  the  doctor  was  sent  for. 
Before  he  came,  it  was  known  only  to  Margaret  French 
that  Kitty  had  escaped  by  herself  from  the  house  and 
could  not  be  found.  Ashe  and  Lady  Tranmore  saw  the 
doctor,  who  prescribed,  and  would  not  admit  that  there 
was  any  cause  for  alarm.  The  heat  had  tried  the  child, 
and  Lady  Kitty — he  looked  round  the  nursery  for  her  in 
some  perplexity — might  be  quite  reassured. 

Margaret  found  her,  wandering  in  the  park — very  wild 
and  pale — told  her  the  doctor's  verdict,  and  brought  her 
home.  Kitty  said  little  or  nothing,  and  was  presently 
persuaded  to  change  her  dress  for  Lord  Parham's  ar- 
rival. By  the  time  the  operation  was  over  she  was  full 
as  usual  of  smiles  and  chatter,  with  no  trace  apparently 
of  the  mood  which  had  gone  before. 

Lord  Parham  found  the  house-party  assembled  on  the 
lawn,  with  Kitty  in  a  three-cornered  hat,  fantastically 
garnished  at  the  side  with  a  great  plume  of  white  cock's 
feathers,  presiding  at  the  tea-table. 

328 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Ah!"  thought  the  Premier,  as  he  approached — "now 
for  the  tare  in  Ashe's  wheat!" 

Nothing,  however,  could  have  been  more  gracious  than 
Kitty's  reception  of  him,  or  more  effusive  than  his  re- 
sponse. He  took  his  seat  beside  her,  a  soUd  and  im- 
pressive figure,  no  less  closely  observed  by  such  of  the 
habitual  guests  of  the  political  country-houses  as  hap- 
pened to  be  present,  than  by  the  sprinkling  of  local  clergy 
and  country  neighbors  to  whom  Kitty  was  giving  tea. 
Lord  Parham,  though  now  in  the  fourth  year  of  his 
Premiership,  was  still  something  of  a  mystery  to  his 
countrymen;  while  for  the  inner  circle  it  was  an  amuse- 
ment and  an  event  that  he  should  be  seen  without  his  wife. 

For  some  time  all  went  well.  Kitty's  manners  and 
topics  were  alike  beyond  reproach.  When  presently  she 
inquired  politely  as  to  the  success  of  his  Scottish  tour, 
Lord  Parham  hoped  he  had  not  altogether  disgraced  him- 
self. But,  thank  Heaven,  it  was  done.  Meanwhile  Ashe, 
he  supposed,  had  been  enjoying  the  pursuits  of  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman? — lucky  fellow! 

"He  has  been  reading  the  Bible,"  said  Kitty,  careless- 
ly, as  she  handed  cake.  "Just  now  he's  in  the  Acts. 
That's  why,  I  suppose,  he  didn't  hear  the  carriage. 
John!"  She  called  a  footman.  "Tell  Mr.  Ashe  that 
Lord  Parham  has  arrived!" 

The  Premier  opened  astonished  eyes. 

"  Does  Ashe  generally  study  the  Scriptures  of  an  after- 
noon?" 

Kitty  nodded — with  her  most  confiding  smile.  "  When 
he  can.  He  says  " — she  dropped  her  voice  to  a  theatrical 
whisper — "  the  Bible  is  such  a '  d d  interesting'  book!" 

Lord  Parham  started  in  his  seat.  Ashe  and  some  of 
"  329 


The    Marriage   of  William    Ashe 

his  friends  still  faintly  recalled,  in  their  too  familiar  and 
public  use  of  this  particular  naughty  word,  the  lurid 
vocabulary  of  the  Peel  and  Melbourne  generation.  But 
in  a  lady's  mouth  the  effect  was  prodigious.  Lord 
Grosville  frowned  sternly  and  walked  away;  Eddie 
Helston  smothered  a  burst  of  laughter;  the  Dean, 
startled,  broke  off  a  conversation  with  a  group  of 
archaeological  clergymen  and  came  to  see  what  he 
could  do  to  keep  Lady  Kitty  in  order;  while  Lady  Tran- 
more  flushed  deeply,  and  began  a  hasty  conversation 
with  Lady  Edith  Manley.  Meanwhile  Kitty,  quite  un- 
conscious, "went  on  cutting" — or  rather,  dispensing 
"bread-and-butter";  and  Lord  Parham  changed  the 
subject. 

"What  a  charming  house!"  he  said,  unwarily,  waving 
his  hand  towards  the  Haggart  mansion.  He  was  short- 
sighted, and,  in  truth,  saw  only  that  it  was  big. 

Kitty  looked  at  him  in  wonder — a  friendly  and 
amiable  wonder.  She  said  it  was  very  kind  of  him  to 
try  and  spare  her  feelings,  but,  really,  anybody  might 
say  what  they  liked  of  Haggart.  She  and  William 
weren't  responsible. 

Lord  Parham,  rather  nettled,  put  on  his  eye-glass, 
and,  being  an  obstinate  man,  still  maintained  that  he  saw 
no  reason  at  all  to  be  dissatisfied  with  Haggart,  from  the 
aesthetic  point  of  view.  Kitty  said  nothing,  but  for  the 
first  time  a  gleam  of  mockery  showed  itself  in  her 
changing  look. 

Lady  Tranmore,  always  nervously  on  the  watch, 
moved  forward  at  this  point,  and  Lord  Parham,  with 
marked  and  pompous  suavity,  transferred  his  conversa- 
tion to  her. 

330 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Thus  assured,  as  he  thought,  of  a  good  Hstener,  and 
deHvered  from  his  uncomfortable  hostess,  Lord  Parham 
crossed  his  legs  and  began  to  talk  at  his  ease.  The 
guests  round  the  various  tea-tables  converged,  some 
standing  and  some  sitting,  and  made  a  circle  about  the 
great  man.  About  Kitty,  too,  who  sat,  equally  con- 
spicuous, dipping  a  biscuit  in  milk,  and  teasing  her  small 
dog  with  it.  Lord  Parham  ineanwhile  described  to  Lady 
Tranmore — at  wearisome  length — the  demonstrations 
which  had  attended  his  journey  south,  the  railway- 
station  crowds,  addresses,  and  so  forth.  He  handled 
the  topic  in  a  tone  of  jocular  humility,  which  but  slight- 
ly concealed  the  vast  complacency  beneath.  Kitty's 
lip  twitched;  she  fed  Ponto  hastily  with  all  possible 
cakes. 

"No  one,  of  course,  can  keep  any  count  of  what  he 
says  on  these  occasions,"  resumed  Lord  Parham,  with  a 
gracious  smile.     "I  hope  I  talked  some  sense — " 

"Oh,  but  why?"  said  Kitty,  looking  up,  her  large 
fawn's  eyes  bent  on  the  speaker. 

"Why?"  repeated  Lord  Parham,  suddenly  stiffening. 
"I  don't  follow  you,  Lady  Kitty." 

"An3^body  can  talk  sense!"  said  Kitty,  throwing  a 
big  bit  of  muffin  at  Ponto's  nose.  "  It's  the  other  thing 
that's  hard — isn't  it?" 

"Lady  Kitty,"  said  the  Dean,  lifting  a  finger,  "you 
are  plagiarizing  from  Mr.  Pitt." 

"Am  I?"  said  Kitty.     "I  didn't  know." 

"  I  imagine  that  Mr.  Pitt  talked  sense  sometimes,"  said 
Lord  Parham,  shortly. 

"Ah,  that  was  when  he  was  drunkl"  said  Kitty. 
"Then  he  wasn't  responsible." 

33^ 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Lord  Parham  and  the  circle  laughed — though  the 
Premier's  laugh  was  a  little  dry  and  perfunctory, 

"So  you  worship  nonsense,  Lady  Kitty?" 

Kitty  nodded  sweetly. 

"And  so  does  William.     Ah,  here  he  is!" 

For  Ashe  appeared,  hurrying  over  the  lawn,  and  Lord 
Parham  rose  to  greet  his  host. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Ashe,  how  well  you  look!  You  have 
^ad  some  holiday!" 

"Which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  yourself,"  said 
Ashe,  with  smiling  sympathy.  "Well! — how  have  the 
speeches  gone?  Is  there  anything  left  of  you?  Edin- 
burgh was  magnificent!" 

He  wore  his  most  radiant  aspect  as  he  sat  down 
beside  his  guest;  and  Kitty  watching  him,  and  already 
conscious  of  a  renewed  and  excitable  dislike  for  her 
guest,  thought  William  was  overdoing  it  absurdly,  and 
grew  still  more  restive. 

The  Premier  brought  the  tips  of  his  fingers  lightly 
together,  as  he  resumed  his  seat. 

"Oh!  my  dear  fellow,  people  were  very  kind — too 
much  so!  Yes — I  think  it  did  good — it  did  good.  I 
should  now  rest  and  be  thankful — if  it  weren't  for  the 
Bishops!" 

"The  Bishops!"  said  the  Rector  of  the  parish  stand- 
ing near.  "What  have  the  Bishops  been  doing,  my 
lord  ?" 

"Dying,"  said  Kitty,  as  she  fell  into  an  attitude  which 
commanded  both  William  and  Lord  Parham.  "They 
do  it  on  purpose." 

"Another  this  morningl"  said  Ashe,  throwing  up  his 
hands. 

332 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Oh!  they  die  to  plague  me,"  said  the  Prime  Minister, 
with  the  air  of  one  on  whom  the  iiniverse  weighs  heavy, 
"There  never  was  such  a  conspiracy!" 

"You  should  let  William  appoint  them,"  said  Kitty, 
leaning  her  chin  upon  her  hands  and  studying  Lord  Par- 
ham  with  eyes  all  the  more  brilliant  for  the  dark  circles 
which  fatigue,  or  something  else,  had  drawn  round  them. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure!"  said  Lord  Parham,  affably.  "I  had 
forgotten  that  Ashe  was  our'  theologian.  Take  me  a 
walk  before  dinner!"  he  added,  addressing  his  host. 

"But  you  won't  take  his  advice,"  said  Kitty,  smiling. 

The  Premier  turned  rather  sharply. 

"How  do  you  know  that,  Lady  Kitty?" 

Kitty  hesitated — then  said,  with  the  prettiest,  slight- 
est laugh: 

"Lady  Parham  has  such  strong  views — ^hasn't  she? — 
on  Church  questions!" 

Lord  Parham's  feeling  was  that  a  more  insidiously 
impertinent  question  had  never  been  put  to  him.  He 
drew  himself  up. 

"If  she  has.  Lady  Kitty,  I  can  only  say  I  know  very 
little  about  them!  She  very  wisely  keeps  them  to  her- 
self." 

"Ah!"  said  Kitty,  as  her  lovely  eyebrows  lifted,  "that 
shows  how  little  people  know." 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Lord  Parham.  "To 
what  do  you  allude,  Lady  Kitty?" 

Kitty  laughed.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  Rector,  a 
spare  High  Churchman,  who  had  retreated  uncomfort- 
ably behind  Lady  Tranmore. 

"  Some  one — said  to  me  last  week — that  Lady  Parham 
had  saved  the  Church!" 

2ii 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  Prime  Minister  rose.  "I  must  have  a  Httle  ex- 
ercise before  dinner.  Your  gardens,  Ashe  —  is  there 
time?" 

Ashe,  scarlet  with  discomfort  and  annoyance,  carried 
his  visitor  off.  As  he  did  so,  he  passed  his  wife.  Kitty 
turned  her  Httle  head,  looked  at  him  half  shyly,  half 
defiantly.  The  Dean  saw  the  look;  saw  also  that  Ashe 
deliberately  avoided  it. 

The  party  presently  began  to  disperse.  The  Dean 
found  himself  beside  his  hostess — strolling  over  the  lawn 
towards  the  house.  He  observed  her  attentively — vexed 
with  her,  and  vexed  for  her!  Surely  she  was  thinner 
than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  A  little  more,  and  her  beauty 
would  suffer  seriously.  Coming  he  knew  not  whence, 
there  lit  upon  him  the  sudden  and  painful  impression 
of  something  undermined,  something  consumed  from 
within. 

"Lady  Kitty,  do  you  ever  rest?"  he  asked  her,  un- 
expectedly. 

"  Rest!"  she  laughed.     "  Why  should  I  ?" 

"Because  you  are  wearing  yourself  out." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Do  you  ever  lie  down — alone — and  read  a  book?" 
persisted  the  Dean. 

"Yes.     I  have  just  finished  Renan's  Vie  de  Jesus!'' 

Her  glance,  even  with  him,  kept  its  note  of  audacity, 
but  much  softened  by  a  kind  of  wistfulness. 

"Ah!  my  dear  Lady  Kitty,  let  Renan  alone,"  cried  the 
Dean — then  with  a  change  of  tone — "but  are  you  speak- 
ing truth — or  naughtiness?" 

"Truth,"  said  Kitty.  "But — of  course — I  am  in  a 
temper." 

334 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  Dean  laughed. 

"  I  see  Lord  Parham  is  not  a  favorite  of  yours." 

Kitty  compressed  her  small  lips. 

"To  think  that  William  should  have  to  take  his  orders 
from  that  man!"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

"Bear  it — for  William's  sake,"  said  the  Dean,  softly, 
"and,  meanwhile — take  my  advice — and  don't  read  any 
more  Renan!" 

Kitty  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"I  prefer  to  see  things  as  they  are.** 

The  Dean  sighed, 

"That  none  of  us  can  do,  my  dear  Lady  Kitty.  No 
one  can  satisfy  his  intelligence.  But  religion  speaks  to 
the  mill — and  it  is  the  only  thing  between  us  and  the 
void.     Don't  tamper  with  iti     It  is  soon  gone." 

A  satirical  expression  passed  over  the  face  of  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Mine  was  gone  before  we  had  been  a  month  married. 
WilHam  killed  it." 

The  Dean  exclaimed: 

"I  hear  always  of  his  interest  in  religious  matters!" 

"  He  cares  for  nothing  so  much — and  he  doesn't  be- 
lieve one  single  word  of  anything!  I  was  brought  up  in 
a  convent,  you  know — ^but  William  laughed  it  all  out 
of  me." 

"Dear  Lady  Kitty!" 

Kitty  nodded.  "And  now,  of  course,  I  know  there's 
nothing  in  it.  Oh!  I  do  beg  your  pardon!"  she  said, 
eagerly.  "  I  never  meant  to  say  anything  rude  to  you. 
And  I  must  go!"  She  looked  up  at  an  open  window  on 
the  second  floor  of  the  house.  The  Dean  supposed  it 
was  the  nursery,  and  began  to  ask  after  the  boy.     But 

335 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

before  he  could  frame  his  question  she  was  gone,  fly- 
ing over  the  grass  with  a  foot  that  scarcely  seemed  to 
touch  it. 

"Poor  child,  poor  child!"  murmured  the  Dean,  in  a 
most  genuine  distress.  But  it  was  not  the  boy  he  was 
thinking  of. 

Presently,  however,  he  was  overtaken  by  Miss  French, 
of  whom  he  inquired  how  the  baby  was. 

Margaret  hesitated.  "He  seems  to  lose  strength," 
she  said,  sadly.  "  The  doctor  declares  there  is  no  danger, 
unless — " 

"Unless  what?" 

"Oh!  but  it's  so  unlikely!"  was  her  hasty  reply. 
"Don't  let's  think  of  it." 

Kitty  was  just  giving  a  last  look  at  herself  in  the  large 
mirror  which  lined  half  one  of  the  sides  of  her  room 
when  Ashe  invaded  her.  She  glanced  at  him  askance  a 
little,  and  when  the  maid  had  gone  Kitty  hurriedly 
gathered  up  gloves  and  fan  and  prepared  to  follow  her. 

"Kitty— one  word!" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arm,  and  held  her  while  he 
looked  down  upon  her  sparkling  dress  and  half-reluctant 
face.  "Kitty,  do  be  nice  to  that  old  fellow  to-night! 
It's  only  for  two  nights.  Take  him  in  the  right  way,  and 
make  a  conquest  of  him — for  good.  He's  been  very 
decent  to  me  in  our  walk — though  you  did  say  such 
extraordinary  things  to  him  this  afternoon.  I  believe 
he  really  wants  to  make  amends." 

"I  do  hate  his  white  eyelashes  so,"  said  Kitty, 
slowly. 

"What  does  it  matter,"  cried  Ashe,  angrily,  "whether 
33^ 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

he  v/ere  a  blue-faced  baboon! — for  two  nights?  Just 
listen  to  him  a  little,  Kitty — that's  all  he  wants.  And — ■ 
don't  be  offended! — but  hold  your  own  small  tongue — 
just  a  little!" 

Kitty  pulled  herself  away. 

"I  believe  I  shall  do  something  dreadful,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

A  sternness  to  which  Ashe's  good-humored  face  was 
almost  wholly  strange  showed  itself  in  his  expression. 

"  Why  should  you  do  anything  dreadful,  please  ?  Lord 
Parham  is  your  guest,  and  my  political  chief.  Is  there 
any  woman  in  England  who  would  not  do  her  best  to  be 
civil  to  him  under  the  circumstances?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Kitty,  with  deliberation.  "No, 
I  don't  think  there  can  be." 

"Kitty!" 

For  the  first  time  Ashe  was  conscious  of  real  exaspera- 
tion. What  was  to  be  done  with  a  temperament  and  a 
disposition  like  this  ? 

"  Do  you  never  think  that  you  have  it  in  your  power 
to  help  me  or  to  ruin  me?"  he  said,  with  vehemence. 

"Oh  yes — often.  I  mean — to  help  you — in  my  own 
way." 

Ashe's  laugh  was  a  sound  of  pure  annoyance. 

"But  please  understand,  it  would  be  infinitely  better 
if  you  would  help  me,  in  my  way  —  in  the  natural, 
accepted  way — the  way  that  everybody  understands." 

"The  way  Lord  Parham  recommends?"  Kitty  looked 
at  him  quietly,  "Never  mind,  William.  I  am  trying 
to  help  you." 

Her  eyes  shone  with  the  strangest  glitter.  Ashe  was 
conscious  of  another  of  those  sudden  stabs  of  anxiety 

337 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

about  her  which  he  had  felt  at  intervals  through  the 
preceding  year.     His  face  softened. 

"Dear,  don't  let's  talk  nonsense!  Just  look  at  me 
sometimes  at  dinner,  and  say  to  yourself,  '  William  asks 
me — for  his  sake — to  be  nice  to  Lord  Parham.'" 

He  again  drew  her  to  him,  but  she  repulsed  him 
almost  with  violence. 

"Why  is  he  here?  Why  have  we  people  dining? 
We  ought  to  be  alone — in  the  dark  !" 

Her  face  had  become  a  white  mask.  Her  breast  rose 
and  fell,  as  though  she  fought  with  sobs. 

"Kitty — what  do  you  mean?"  He  recoiled  in  dis- 
may. 

"Harry!" — she  just  breathed  the  word  between  her 
closed  lips. 

"My  darling!"  cried  Ashe,  "I  saw  Dr.  Rotherham 
myself  this  afternoon.  He  gave  the  most  satisfactory 
account,  and  Margaret  told  me  she  had  repeated  every- 
thing to  you.     The  child  will  soon  be  himself  again." 

"He  is  dying!"  said  Kitty,  in  the  same  low,  remote 
voice,  her  gaze  still  fixed  on  Ashe. 

"Kitty!  Don't  say  such  things — don't  think  them!" 
Ashe  had  himself  grown  pale,  "  At  any  rate  " — he  turned 
on  her  reproachfully — "tell  me  why  you  think  them. 
Confide  in  me,  Kitty.  Come  and  talk  to  me  about  the 
boy.  But  three-fourths  of  the  time  you  behave  as 
though  there  were  nothing  the  matter  with  him — ^you 
won't  even  see  the  doctor — and  then  you  say  a  thing 
like  this!" 

She  was  silent  a  moment;  then  with  a  wild  gesture 
of  the  head  and  shoulders,  as  of  one  shaking  off  a  weight, 
she  moved  away — drew  on  her  long  gloves — and  going 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

to  the  dressing-table,  gave  a  touch  of  rouge  to  her 
cheeks. 

"Kitty,  why  did  you  say  that?"  Ashe  followed  her 
entreatingly. 

"I  don't  know.  At  least,  I  couldn't  explain.  Now, 
shall  we  go  down?" 

Ashe  drew  a  long  breath.  His  frail  son  held  the 
inmost  depths  of  his  heart. 

"You  have  made  the  party  an  abomination  to  me!"  he 
said,  with  energy. 

"Don't  believe  me,  then — believe  the  doctor,"  said 
Kitty,  her  face  changing.  "And  as  for  Lord  Parham, 
I'll  try,  William— I'll  try." 

She  passed  him — the  loveliest  of  visions — fiimg  him  a 
hand  to  kiss — and  was  gone. 


XVI 


THERE  could  be  no  question  that  in  all  external 
matters  Lord  Parham  was  that  evening  magnifi- 
cently entertained  by  the  Home  Secretary  and  Lady 
Kitty  Ashe.  The  chef  was  extravagantly  good;  the 
wines,  flowers,  and  service  lavish  to  a  degree  which  made 
both  Ashe  and  Lady  Tranmore  secretly  uncomfortable. 
Lady  Tranmore  in  particular  detested  "show,"  in- 
fluenced as  much  by  aristocratic  instinct  as  by  moral 
qualms ;  and  there  was  to  her  mind  a  touch  of  vulgarity 
in  the  entertaining  at  Haggart,  which  might  be  tolerated 
in  the  case  of  financiers  and  nouveaux  riches,  while,  as 
connected  with  her  William  and  his  wife,  who  had  no 
need  whatever  to  bribe  society,  it  was  unbecoming  and 
undignified.  Moreover,  the  winter  had  been  marked  by 
a  financial  crisis  caused  entirely  by  Kitty's  extrava- 
gance. A  large  sum  of  money  had  had  to  be  raised  from 
the  Tranmore  estates ;  times  were  not  good  for  the  land- 
ed interest,  and  the  head  agent  had  begun  to  look 
grave. 

If  only  William  would  control  his  wife!  But  Hag- 
gart contained  one  of  those  fine,  slowly  gathered  libra- 
ries which  make  the  distinction  of  so  many  English 
country-houses;  and  in  the  intervals  of  his  official 
work,  which  even  in  holiday  time  was  considerable, 
Ashe  could  not  be  beguiled  from  the  beloved  company  of 

340 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

his  books  to  help  Kitty  sign  checks,  or  scold  her  about 
expenditure. 

So  Kitty  signed  and  signed;  and  the  smaller  was 
Ashe's  balance,  the  more,  it  seemed,  did  Kitty  spend. 
Then,  of  course,  every  few  months,  there  were  deficits 
which  had  to  be  made  good.  And  as  to  the  debts  which 
accumulated,  Lady  Tranmore  preferred  not  to  think 
about  them.  It  all  meant  future  trouble  and  clipping  of 
wings  for  William;  and  it  all  entered  into  that  deep  and 
hidden  resentment,  half  anxious  love,  half  alien  tempera- 
ment, which  Elizabeth  Tranmore  felt  towards  Ashe's 
wife. 

However — to  repeat — Lord  Parham,  as  far  as  the 
fleshpots  went,  was  finely  treated.  Kitty  was  in  full 
force,  glittering  in  a  spangled  dress,  her  dazzling  face 
and  neck,  and  the  piled  masses  of  her  hair,  thrown  out 
in  relief  against  the  panelled  walls  of  the  dining-room 
with  a  brilliance  which  might  have  tempted  a  modern 
Rembrandt  to  paint  an  English  Saskia.  Eddie  Helston, 
on  her  left,  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her.  And  even 
Lord  Parham,  much  as  he  disliked  her,  acknowledged, 
during  the  early  courses,  that  she  was  handsome,  and  in 
her  own  way — thank  God!  it  was  not  the  way  of  any 
womankind  belonging  to  him — good  company. 

He  saw,  too,  or  thought  he  saw,  that  she  was  anxious 
to  make  him  amends  for  her  behavior  of  the  afternoon. 
She  restrained  herself,  and  talked  politics.  And  within 
the  lines  he  always  observed  when  talking  to  women, 
lines  dictated  by  a  contempt  innate  and  ineradicable, 
Lord  Parham  was  quite  ready  to  talk  politics  too.  Then 
— it  suddenly  struck  him  that  she  was  pumping  him, 
and  with  great  adroitness.     Ashe,  he  knew,  wanted  an 

341 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

early  place  in  the  session  for  a  particular  measure  in 
which  he  was  interested.  Lord  Parham  had  no  mind 
to  give  him  the  precedence  that  he  wanted ;  was,  in  fact, 
determined  on  something  quite  different.  But  he  was 
well  aware  by  now  that  Ashe  was  a  person  to  be  reckon- 
ed with ;  and  he  had  so  far  taken  refuge  in  vagueness — 
an  amiable  vagueness,  by  which  Ashe,  on  their  walk  be- 
fore dinner,  had  been  much  taken  in,  misled  no  doubt  by 
the  strength  of  his  own  wishes. 

And  now  here  was  Lady  Kitty — whom,  by-the-way,  it 
was  not  at  all  easy  to  take  in — trying  to  "manage"  him, 
to  pin  him  to  details,  to  wheedle  him  out  of  a  pledge! 

Lord  Parham,  presently,  looked  at  her  with  cold, 
smiling  eyes. 

"Ah!  you  are  interested  in  these  things,  Lady  Kitty? 
Well — tell  me  your  views.  You  women  have  such  an 
instinct — " 

— whereby  the  moth  was  kept  hovering  round  the 
flame.  Till,  in  a  flash,  Kitty  awoke  to  the  fact  that 
while  she  had  been  listening  happily  to  her  own  voice, 
taking  no  notice  whatever  of  the  signals  which  William 
endeavored  to  send  her  from  the  other  end  of  the  table — 
while  she  had  been  tripping  gayly  through  one  indiscre- 
tion after  another,  betraying  innumerable  things  as  to 
William's  opinions  and  William's  plans  that  she  had  in- 
finitely better  not  have  betrayed — Lord  Parham  had 
said  nothing,  betrayed  nothing,  promised  nothing.  A 
quiet  smile — a  courteous  nod — and  presently  a  shade 
of  mockery  in  the  lips — the  meaning  of  them,  all  in  a 
moment,  burst  on  Kitty. 

Her  face  flamed.  Thenceforward  it  would  be  difficult 
to  describe  the  dinner.     Conversationally,  at  Kitty's  end 

342 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

it  became  an  uproar.  She  started  the  wildest  topics, 
and  Lord  Parham  had  afterwards  a  bruised  recollection 
as  of  one  who  has  been  dragged  or  driven,  Caliban-like, 
through  brake  and  thicket,  pinched  and  teased  and  pelted 
by  elfish  fingers,  without  one  single  uncivil  speech  or 
act  of  overt  offence  to  which  an  angry  guest  could  point. 
With  each  later  course,  the  Prime  Minister  grew  stiff er 
and  more  silent.  Endurance  was  written  in  every  line 
of  his  fighting  head  and  round,  ungraceful  shoulders, 
in  his  veiled  eyes  and  stolid  mouth.  Lady  Tranmore 
gave  a  gasp  of  relief  when  at  last  Kitty  rose  from  her 
seat. 

The  evening  went  no  better.  Lord  Parham  was  set 
down  to  cards  with  Kitty,  Eddie  Helston,  and  Lord 
Grosville.  Lord  Grosville,  his  partner,  played,  to  the 
Premier's  thinking,  like  an  idiot,  and  Lady  Kitty  and 
the  young  man  chattered  and  sparred,  so  that  all  rea- 
sonable play  became  impossible.  Lord  Parham  lost 
more  than  he  at  all  liked  to  lose,  and  at  half-past  ten 
he  pleaded  fatigue,  refused  to  smoke,  and  went  to  his 
room. 

Ashe  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  failure  of  the  evening, 
and  the  discomfort  of  his  guest.  But  he  said  nothing, 
and  Kitty  avoided  his  neighborhood.  Meanwhile,  be- 
tween him  and  his  mother  a  certain  tacit  understanding 
began  to  make  itself  felt.  They  talked  quietly,  in  cor- 
ners, of  the  arrangements  for  the  speech  and  fete  of 
the  morrow.  So  far,  they  had  been  too  much  left  to 
Kitty.  Ashe  promised  his  mother  to  look  into  them. 
He  and  she  combined  for  the  protection  of  Lord  Par- 
ham. 

343 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

When  about  one  o'clock  Ashe  went  to  bed,  Kitty 
either  was  or  pretended  to  be  fast  asleep.  The  room 
was  in  darkness  save  for  the  faint  illumination  of  a  night- 
light,  which  just  revealed  to  Ashe  the  delicate  figure  of 
his  wife,  lying  high  on  her  pillows,  her  cheek  and  brow 
hidden  in  the  confusion  of  her  hair. 

One  window  was  wide  open  to  the  night,  and  once 
more  Ashe  stood  lost  in  "recollection"  beside  it,  as  on 
that  night  in  Hill  Street,  more  than  a  year  before.  But 
the  thoughts  which  on  that  former  occasion  had  been 
still  as  tragic  and  unfamiliar  guests  in  a  mind  that  re- 
pelled them  had  now,  alack,  lost  their  strangeness;  they 
entered  habitually,  unannounced — frequent,  irritating, 
deplorable. 

Had  the  relation  between  himself  and  Kitty  ever,  in 
truth,  recovered  the  shock  of  that  incident  on  the  river — 
of  his  night  of  restlessness,  his  morning  of  agonized 
alarm,  and  the  story  to  which  he  listened  on  her  re- 
turn? It  had  been  like  some  physical  blow  or  wound, 
easily  healed  or  conquered  for  the  moment,  which  then, 
as  time  goes  on,  reveals  a  hidden  series  of  consequences. 

Consequences,  in  this  case,  connected  above  all  with 
Kitty's  own  nature  and  temperament.  The  excitement 
of  Clifife's  declaration,  of  her  own  resistance  and  dra- 
matic position,  as  between  her  husband  and  her  lover, 
had  worked  ever  since  as  a  poison  in  Kitty's  mind — 
Ashe  was  becoming  dismally  certain  of  it.  The  absurd 
incident  of  the  night  before  with  the  photograph  had 
been  enough  to  prove  it. 

Well,  the  thing,  he  supposed,  would  right  itself  in 
time.  Meanwhile,  Clift'e  had  been  dismissed,  and  this 
foolish  young   fellow  Eddie   Helston  must  soon  follow 

344 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ash^e 

him.  Ashe  had  viewed  the  affair  so  far  with  an  amused 
tolerance;  if  Kitty  liked  to  flirt  with  babes  it  was  her 
affair,  not  his.  But  he  perceived  that  his  mother  was 
once  more  becoming  restless  under  the  general  incon- 
venance  of  it ;  and  he  had  noticed  distress  and  disapproval 
in  the  little  Dean,  Kitty's  stanchest  friend. 

Luckily,  no  difficulty  there!  The  lad  was  almost  as 
devoted  to  him — Ashe — as  he  was  to  Kitty.  He  was 
absurd,  affected,  vain;  but  there  was  no  vice  in  him, 
and  a  word  of  remonstrance  would  probably  reduce 
him  to  abject  regret  and  self-reproach.  Ashe  intended 
that  his  mother  should  speak  it,  and  as  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  ask  her  help,  he  felt  for  the  second  time  the 
sharp  humiliation  of  the  husband  who  cannot  secure  his 
own  domestic  peace,  but  must  depend  on  the  aid  of 
others.  Yet  how  could  he  himself  go  to  young  Helston  ? 
Some  men  no  doubt  could  have  handled  such  an  incident 
with  dignity.  Ashe,  with  his  critical  sense  for  ever  play- 
ing on  himself  and  others ;  with  the  touch  of  moral  shirk- 
ing that  belonged  to  his  inmost  nature;  and,  above  all, 
with  his  half-humorous,  half-bitter  consciousness  that 
whoever  else  might  be  a  hero,  he  was  none:  Ashe,  at 
least,  could  and  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  That 
he  should  begin  now  to  play  the  tyrannous  or  jealous 
husband  would  make  him  ridiculous  both  in  his  own 
eyes  and  other  people's. 

And  yet  Kitty  must  somehow  be  protected  from  her- 
self! .  .  .  Then — as  to  politics  ?  Once,  in  talking  with  his 
mother,  he  had  said  to  her  that  he  was  Kitty's  husband 
first,  and  a  public  man  afterwards.  Was  he  prepared 
now  to  make  the  statement  with  the  same  simplicity, 
the  same  whole-heartedness  ? 
»3  345 


T^h e    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Involuntarily  he  moved  closer  to  the  bed  and  looked 
down  on  Kitty.  Little,  delicate  face! — always  with 
something  mournful  and  fretful  in  repose. 

He  loved  her  surely  as  much  as  ever — ah!  yes,  he 
loved  her.  His  whole  nature  yearned  over  her,  as  the 
wife  of  his  youth,  the  mother  of  his  poor  boy.  Yet,  as  he 
remembered  the  mood  in  which  he  had  proposed  to  her, 
that  defiance  of  the  world  and  life  which  had  possessed 
him  when  he  had  made  her  marry  him,  he  felt  himself — 
almost  with  bitterness — another  and  a  meaner  man. 
No! — he  was  not  prepared  to  lose  the  world  for  her — the 
world  of  high  influence  and  ambition  upon  which  he  had 
now  entered  as  a  conqueror.  She  must  so  control 
herself  that  she  did  not  ruin  all  his  hopes — which, 
after  all,  were  hers — and  the  work  he  might  do  for  his 
country. 

What  incredible  perversity  and  caprice  she  had  shown 
towards  Lord  Parham!  How  was  he  to  deal  with  it — 
he,  William  Ashe,  with  his  ironic  temper  and  his  easy 
standards?  What  could  he  say  to  her  but  "Love  me, 
Kitty! — love  yourself! — and  don't  be  a  little  fool!  Life 
might  be  so  amusing  if  you  would  only  bridle  your 
fancies  and  play  the  game!" 

As  for  loftier  things,  "self -reverence,  self-knowledge, 
self-control" —  duty — and  the  passion  of  high  ideals — 
who  was  he  to  prate  about  them?  The  little  Dean, 
perhaps! — most  spiritual  of  worldlings.  Ashe  knew 
himself  to  be  neither  spiritual  nor  a  hypocrite.  A 
certain  measure,  a  certain  order  and  harmony  in  life — 
laughter  and  good-humor  and  affection — and,  for  the 
fight  that  makes  and  welds  a  man,  those  great  political 
and  social  interests  in  the  midst  of  which  he  found  him- 

346 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

self — he  asked  no  more,  and  with  these  he  would  have 
been  abundantly  content. 

He  sighed  and  frowned,  his  muscles  stiffening  un- 
consciously. Yes,  for  both  their  sakes  he  must  try  and 
play  the  master  with  Kitty,  ridiculous  as  it  seemed. 

.  .  .  He  turned  away,  remembering  his  sick  child — and 
went  noiselessly  to  the  nursery.  There,  along  the  dark- 
ened passages,  he  found  a  night-nurse,  sitting  working 
beside  a  shaded  lamp.  The  child  was  sleeping,  and  the 
report  was  good.  Ashe  stole  on  tiptoe  to  look  at  him, 
holding  his  breath,  then  returned  to  his  dressing-room. 
But  a  faint  call  from  Kitty  pursued  him.  He  opened 
the  door,  and  saw  her  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  How  is  he?" 

She  was  hardly  awake,  but  her  expression  struck  him 
as  very  wild  and  piteous.  He  went  to  her  and  took  her 
in  his  arms. 

"Sleeping  quietly,  darling — so  must  you!" 

She  sank  back  on  her  pillows,  his  arm  still  round  her. 

"I  was  there  an  hour  ago,"  she  murmured.  "I  shall 
soon  wake  up — " 

But  for  the  moment  she  was  asleep  again,  her  fair 
head  lying  against  his  shoulder.  He  sat  down  beside  her, 
supporting  her.  Suddenly,  as  he  looked  down  upon  her 
with  mingled  passion,  tenderness,  and  pain,  a  sharp  per- 
ception assailed  him.  How  thin  she  was — a  mere 
feather's  weight!  The  face  was  smaller  than  ever — the 
hands  skin  and  bone!  Margaret  French  had  once  or 
twice  bade  him  notice  this,  had  spoken  with  anxiety. 
He  bent  over  his  wife  and  observed  her  attentively.  It 
was  merely  the  effect  of  a  hot  summer,  surel}^,  and  of  a 
constant  nervous  fatigue  ?    He  would  take  her  abroad  for 

347 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

a  fortnight  in  September,  if  his  official  work  would  let 
him,  and  perhaps  leave  her  in  north  Italy,  or  Switzer- 
land, with  Margaret  French. 

The  great  day  was  half-way  through,  and  the  throng 
in  Haggart  Park  and  grounds  was  at  its  height.  A 
flower-show  in  the  morning;  then  a  tenants'  dinner 
with  a  speech  from  Ashe ;  and  now,  in  a  marquee  erected 
for  the  occasion,  Lord  Parham  was  addressing  his  sup- 
porters in  the  county.  Around  him  on  the  platform 
sat  the  Whig  gentry,  the  Radical  manufacturers,  the 
town  wire-pullers  and  local  agents  on  whom  a  great  party 
depended ;  in  front  of  him  stretched  a  crowded  meeting 
drawn  in  almost  equal  parts  from  the  coal-mining  dis- 
tricts to  the  north  of  Haggart  and  from  the  agricultural 
districts  to  the  south.  .  .  . 

The  August  air  was  stifling;  perspiration  shone  on  the 
broad  brows  and  cheeks  of  the  farmers  sitting  in  the 
front  half  of  the  audience ;  Lord  Parham's  gray  face  was 
almost  white ;  his  harsh  voice  labored  against  the  acoustic 
difficulties  of  the  tent;  effort  and  heat,  discomfort  and 
ennui  breathed  from  the  packed  benches,  and  from  the 
short-necked,  large-headed  figure  of  the  Premier. 

Ashe  sat  to  the  speaker's  right,  outwardly  attentive, 
inwardly  ashamed  of  his  party  and  his  chief.  He  him- 
self belonged  to  a  new  generation,  for  whom  formulas 
that  had  satisfied  their  fathers  were  empty  and  dead. 
But  with  these  formulae  Lord  Parham  was  stuffed.  A 
man  of  average  intriguing  ability,  he  had  been  raised,  at 
a  moment  of  transition,  to  the  place  he  held,  by  a  con- 
summate command  of  all  the  meaner  arts  of  compro- 
mise and  management,  no  less  than  by  an  invaluable 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

power  of  playing  to  the  gallery.  He  led  a  party  who 
despised  him — and  he  complacently  imagined  that  he 
was  the  party.  His  speech  on  this  occasion  bristled 
with  himself,  and  had,  in  truth,  no  other  substance; 
the  I's  swarmed  out  upon  the  audience  like  wasps. 

Ashe  groaned  in  spirit,  "We  have  the  ideas,"  he 
thought,  "but  they  are  damned  little  good  to  us — it  is 
the  Tories  who  have  the  men!  Ye  gods!  must  we  all 
talk  like  this  at  last  ?"  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  on  the  other  side  of  the  platform,  behind 
Lord  Parham,  he  noticed  that  Kitty  and  Eddie  Helston 
were  exchanging  signs.  Kitty  drew  out  a  tablet,  wrote 
upon  it,  and,  leaning  over  some  white-frocked  children  of 
the  Lord  Lieutenant  who  sat  behind  her,  handed  the  torn 
leaf  to  Helston.  But  from  some  clumsiness  he  let  it 
drop;  at  the  moment  a  door  opened  at  the  back  of  the 
platform,  and  the  leaf,  caught  by  the  draught,  was  blown 
back  across  the  bench  where  Kitty  and  the  house-party 
were  sitting,  and  fluttered  down  to  a  resting-place  on 
the  piece  of  red  baize  wheron  Lord  Parham  was  stand- 
ing— close  beside  his  left  foot. 

Ashe  saw  Kitty's  start  of  dismay,  her  scarlet  flush, 
her  involuntary  movement.  But  Lord  Parham  had 
started  on  his  peroration.  The  rustics  gaped,  the  gentry 
sat  expressionless,  the  reporters  toiled  after  the  great 
man.  Kitty  all  the  time  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  little 
white  paper ;  Ashe  no  less.  Between  him  and  Lord  Par- 
ham there  was  first  the  Lord  Lieutenant,  a  portly  man, 
very  blind  and  extremely  deaf — then  a  table  with  a 
Liberal  peer  behind  it  for  chairman. 

Lord  Parham  had  resumed  his  seat.  The  tent  was 
shaken  with  cheers,  and  the  smiling  chairman  had  risen. 

349 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

"Can  you  ask  Lord  Parham  to  hand  me  on  that 
paper  on  the  floor,"  said  Ashe,  in  the  ear  of  the  Lord 
Lieutenant,  "it  seems  to  have  dropped  from  my  port- 
foHo." 

The  Lord  Lieutenant,  bending  backward  behind  the 
chairman  as  the  next  speaker  rose,  tried  to  attract  Lord 
Parham's  attention.  Eddie  Helston  was,  at  the  same 
time,  endeavoring  to  make  his  way  forward  through  the 
crowded  seats  behind  the  Prime  Minister. 

Meanwhile  Lord  Parham  had  perceived  the  paper, 
raised  it,  and  adjusted  his  spectacles.  He  thought  it  was 
a  communication  from  the  audience — a  question,  per- 
haps, that  he  was  expected  to  answer. 

"Lord  Parham!"  cried  the  Lord  Lieutenant  again, 
"would  you — " 

"Silence,  please!  Speak  up!" — from  the  audience, 
who  had  so  far  failed  to  catch  a  word  of  what  the  new 
speaker  was  saying. 

"What  is  the  matter?  You  really  can't  get  through 
here!"  said  a  gray -haired  dowager  crossly  to  Eddie 
Helston. 

Lord  Parham  looked  at  the  paper  in  mystification. 
It  contained  these  words: 

"  Hope  you've  been  counting  the  '  I's.'  I  make  it  fifty-seven. 
— K." 

And  in  the  corner  of  the  paper  a  thumb  -  nail  sketch 
of  himself,  perorating,  with  a  garland  of  capital  I's 
round  his  neck. 

The  Premier's  face  became  brick-red,  then  gray  again. 
He  folded  up  the  paper  and  .put  it  in  his  waistcoat- 
pocket. 

350 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  meeting  had  broken  up.  For  the  common  herd, 
it  was  to  be  followed  by  sports  in  the  park  and  refresh- 
ments in  big  tents.  For  the  gentry,  Lady  Kitty  had  a 
garden-party  to  which  Royalty  was  coming.  And  as  her 
guests  streamed  out  of  the  marquee,  Lord  Parham  ap- 
proached his  hostess. 

"I  think  this  belongs  to  you,  Lady  Kitty."  And 
taking  from  his  pocket  a  folded  slip  of  paper  he  offered 
it  to  her. 

Kitty  looked  at  him.  Her  color  was  high,  her  eyes 
sparkled. 

"Nothing  to  do  with  me!"  she  said,  gayly,  as  she 
glanced  at  it.     "But  I'll  look  for  the  owner." 

"Sorry  to  give  you  the  trouble,"  said  Lord  Parham, 
with  a  ceremonious  inclination.  Then,  turning  to  Ashe, 
he  remarked  that  he  was  extremely  tired— worn  out,  in 
fact — and  would  ask  his  host's  leave  to  desert  the  gar- 
den-party while  he  attended  to  some  most  important 
letters.  Ashe  offered  to  escort  him  to  the  house.  "  On 
the  contrary,  look  after  your  guests,"  said  the  Premier, 
dryly,  and,  beckoning  to  the  Liberal  peer  who  had  been 
his  chairman,  he  engaged  him  in  conversation,  and  the 
two  presently  vanished  through  a  window  open  to  the 
terrace. 

Kitty  had  been  joined  meanwhile  by  Eddie  Helston, 
and  the  two  stood  talking  together,  a  flushed,  excited 
pair.     Ashe  overtook  them. 

"May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment,  Kitty?" 

Eddie  Helston  glanced  at  the  fine  form  and  stififened 
bearing  of  his  host,  understood  that  his  presence  counted 
for  something  in  the  annoyance  of  Ashe's  expression, 
and  departed  abashed. 

351 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  paper,  Kitty,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

His  frown  and  straightened  lip  brought  fresh  wildness 
into  Kitty's  expression. 

"It  is  my  property."  She  kept  one  hand  behind 
her. 

"I  heard  you  just  disavow  that." 

Kitty  laughed  angrily. 

"Yes — that's  the  worst  of  Lord  Parham— one  has  to 
tell  so  many  lies  for  his  beaux  yeux  P' 

"  You  must  give  it  me,  please,"  said  Ashe,  quietly.  "  I 
ought  to  know  where  I  am  with  Lord  Parham.  He  is 
clearly  bitterly  offended — by  something,  and  I  shall  have 
to  apologize." 

Kitty  breathed  fast. 

"Well,  don't  let's  quarrel  before  the  county!"  she 
said,  as  she  turned  aside  into  a  shrubbery  walk  edged 
by  clipped  yews  and  hidden  from  the  big  lawn.  There 
she  paused  and  confronted  him.  "How  did  you  know 
I  wrote  it?" 

"I  saw  you  write  it  and  throw  it." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand.  Kitty  hesitated,  then 
slowly  unclosed  her  own,  and  held  out  the  small,  white 
palm  on  which  lay  the  crumpled  slip. 

Ashe  read  it  and  tore  it  up. 

"That  game,  Kitty,  was  hardly  worth  the  candle!" 

"  It  was  a  perfectly  harmless  remark — and  only  meant 
for  Eddie!  Any  one  else  than  Lord  Parham  would  have 
laughed.     Then  I  might  have  begged  his  pardon." 

"It  is  what  you  ought  to  do  now,"  said  Ashe.  "A 
little  note  from  you,  Kitty — you  could  write  it  to  per- 
fection— " 

352 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Kitty,  hastily,  locking  her 
hands  behind  her. 

"You  prefer  to  have  failed  in  hospitality  and  man- 
ners," he  said,  bitterly.  "Well,  I'm  afraid  if  you  don't 
feel  any  disgrace  in  it  I  do.     Lord  Parham  in  our  guest  /" 

And  Ashe  turned  on  his  heel  and  would  have  left  her, 
when  Kitty  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"WiUiam!" 

She  had  grown  very  pale. 

"Yes." 

"You've  never  spoken  to  me  like  that  before,  Will- 
iam— never!  But— as  I  told  you  long  ago,  you  can 
stop  it  all  if  you  like — in  a  moment." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Kitty — but  we  mustn't 
stay  arguing  here  any  longer — " 

"No! — but — don't  you  remember?  I  told  you,  you 
can  always  send  me  away.  Then  I  shouldn't  be  put- 
ting spokes  in  your  wheel." 

"I  don't  deny,"  said  Ashe,  slowly,  "it  might  be 
wisest  if,  next  spring,  you  stayed  here,  for  part  at  least 
of  the  session— or  abroad.  It  is  certainly  difficult  car- 
rying on  politics  under  these  conditions.  I  could,  of 
course,  come  backward  and  forward — " 

Kitty's  brown  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  his  face 
wavered  a  little,  and  she  grew  even  whiter. 

"Very  well.  That  would  be  a  kind  of  separation, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"There  would  be  no  need  to  call  it  by  any  such  name. 
Oh!  Kitty!"  cried  Ashe,  "why  can't  you  behave  like  a 
reasonable  woman?" 

"  Separation,"  she  repeated,  steadily.  "  I  know  that's 
what  your  mother  wants." 

353 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

A  wave  of  sound  reached  them  amid  the  green  shad- 
ow of  the  yews.  The  cheers  that  heralded  Royalty  had 
begun. 

"Come!"  said  Kitty. 

And  she  flew  across  the  grass,  reaching  her  place  by 
the  central  tent  just  as  the  Royalties  drove  up. 

The  Prime  Minister  sulked  in-doors;  and  Kitty,  with 
the  most  engaging  smiles,  made  his  apologies.  The  heat 
— the  fatigue  of  the  speech — a  crushing  headache,  and  a 
doctor's  order! — he  begged  their  Royal  Highnesses  to  ex- 
cuse him.  The  Royal  Highnesses  were  at  first  astonished, 
inclined,  perhaps,  to  take  offence.  But  the  party  was  so 
agreeable,  and  Lady  Kitty  so  charming  a  hostess,  that 
the  Premier's  absence  was  soon  forgotten,  and  as  the  day 
cooled  to  a  delicious  evening,  and  the  most  costly  bands 
from  town  discoursed  a  melting  music,  as  garlanded  boats 
appeared  upon  the  river  inviting  passengers,  and,  with 
the  dusk,  fireworks  began  to  ascend  from  a  little  hill ;  as 
the  trees  shone  green  and  silver  and  rose- color  in  the 
Bengal  lights,  and  amid  the  sweeping  clouds  of  smoke 
the  wide  stretches  of  the  park,  the  close-packed  groups 
of  human  beings,  appeared  and  vanished  like  the  country 
and  creatures  of  a  dream — the  success  of  Lady  Kitty's 
fete,  the  fame  of  her  gayety  and  her  beauty,  filled  the  air. 
She  flashed  hither  and  thither,  in  a  dress  embroidered 
with  wild  roses  and  a  hat  festooned  with  them — attend- 
ed always  by  Eddie  Helston,  by  various  curates  who 
cherished  a  hopeless  attachment  to  her,  and  by  a  fat 
German  grand-duke,  who  had  come  in  the  wake  of  the 
Royalties. 

Her  cleverness,  her  resource,  her  organizing  power 
were  lauded  to  the  skies.  Royalty  was  gracious,  and  the 

354 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

grand-duke  resentfully  asked  an  aide-de-camp  on  the 
way  home  why  he  had  not  been  informed  that  such  a 
pretty  person  awaited  him. 

"I  should  den  haf  looked  beforehand — as  vel  as  tink- 
ing  behind,"  said  the  grand -duke,  as  he  wrapped  him- 
self sentimentally  in  his  military  cloak,  to  meditate  on 
Lady  Kitty's  brown  eyes. 

Meanwhile  Lord  Parham  remained  closeted  in  his 
sitting-room  with  his  secretary.  Ashe  tried  to  gain 
admittance,  but  in  vain.  Lord  Parham  pleaded  great 
fatigue  and  his  letters;  and  asked  for  a  Bradshaw. 

"  His  lordship  has  inquired  if  there  is  a  train  to-night," 
said  the  little  secretary,  evidently  much  flustered. 

Ashe  protested.  And,  indeed,  as  it  turned  out,  there 
was  no  train  worth  the  taking.  Then  Lord  Parham 
sent  a  message  that  he  hoped  to  appear  at  dinner. 

Kitty  locked  her  door  while  she  was  dressing,  and 
Ashe,  whose  mind  was  a  confusion  of  many  feelings — 
anger,  compunction,  and  that  fascination  which  in  her 
brilliant  moods  she  exercised  over  him  no  less  than  over 
others — could  get  no  speech  with  her. 

They  met  on  the  threshold  of  the  child's  room,  she 
coming  out,  he  going  in.  But  she  wrenched  herself  from 
him  and  would  say  nothing.  The  report  of  the  little  boy 
was  good ;  he  smiled  at  his  father,  and  Ashe  felt  a 
cooling  balm  in  the  touch  of  his  soft  hands  and  lips.  He 
descended — in  a  more  philosophical  mind;  inclined,  at 
any  rate,  to  "damn"  Lord  Parham.  What  a  fool  the 
man  must  be!  Why  couldn't  he  have  taken  it  with  a 
laugh,  and  so  turned  the  tables  on  Kitty? 

Was  there  any  good  to  be  got  out  of  apologizing? 
Ashe  supposed  he  must  attempt  it  some  time  that  night. 

355 


The   Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

A  precious  awkward  business!     But  relations  had  got 
to  be  restored  somehow. 

Lady  Tranmore  overtook  him  on  the  way  down-stairs. 
In  the  press  of  the  afternoon  they  had  hardly  seen  each 
other. 

"What  is  really  wrong  with  Lord  Parham,  William?" 
.she  asked  him,  anxiously.  Ashe  hesitated,  then  whis- 
pered a  word  or  two  in  her  ear,  begging  her  to  keep  the 
great  man  in  play  for  the  evening.  He  was  to  take 
her  in,  while  Kitty  would  fall  to  the  Bishop  of  the 
diocese. 

"She  gets  on  perfectly  with  the  clergy,"  said  Lady 
Tranmore,  with  an  involuntary  sigh.  Then,  as  the  sense 
of  humor  was  strong  in  both,  they  laughed.  But  it  was 
a  chilly  and  perfunctory  laughter. 

They  had  no  sooner  passed  into  the  main  hall  than 
Kitty  came  running  down-stairs,  with  a  large  packet  in 
her  hand. 

"Mr.  Darrein" 

"At  your  service!"  said  Darrell,  emerging  from  the 
shadows  of  one  of  the  broad  corridors  of  the  ground- 
floor. 

"Take  it,  please!"  said  Kitty,  panting  a  little,  as  she 
gave  the  packet  into  his  hands.  "If  I  look  at  it  any 
more,  I  might  bum  it!" 

"Suppose  you  do!" 

"No,  no!"  said  Kitty,  pushing  the  bundle  away,  as 
he  laughingly  tendered  it.  "I  must  see  what  hap- 
pens!" 

"Is  the  gap  filled?" 

She  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips.  Her  eyes  danced. 
Then  she  hurried  on  to  the  drawing-room. 

356 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Whether  it  were  the  soothing  presence  of  the  clergy 
or  no,  certainly  Kitty  was  no  less  triumphant  at  dinner 
than  she  had  been  in  the  afternoon.  The  chorus  of  fun 
and  pleasure  that  surrounded  her,  while  he  himself  sat, 
tired  and  bored,  between  Lady  Edith  Manley  and  Lady 
Tranmore,  did  but  make  her  offence  the  greater  in  the 
eyes  of  Lord  Parham.  He  had  so  far  buried  it  in  a 
complete  and  magnificent  silence.  The  meeting  between 
him  and  his  hostess  before  dinner  had  been  marked  by  a 
strict  conformity  to  all  the  rules.  Kitty  had  inquired 
after  his  headache;  Lord  Parham  expressed  his  regrets 
that  he  had  missed  so  brilliant  a  party ;  and  Kitty,  flirt- 
ing her  fan,  invented  messages  from  the  Royalties  which, 
as  most  of  those  present  knew,  the  Royalties  had  been 
far  too  well  amused  to  think  of.  Then  after  this  pas 
seul,  in  the  presence  of  the  crowded  drawing-room,  had 
been  duly  executed,  Kitty  retired  to  her  Bishop,  and 
Lord  Parham  led  forth  Lady  Tranmore. 

"What  a  lovely  moon!"  said  Lady  Edith  Manley  to 
the  Dean.     "It  makes  even  this  house  look  romantic." 

They  were  walking  outside  the  drawing-room  windows, 
on  a  terrace  which  was,  indeed,  the  only  feature  of  the 
Haggart  fajade  which  possessed  some  architectural 
interest.  A  low  balustrade  of  terra-cotta,  copied  from 
a  famous  Italian  villa,  ran  round  it,  broken  by  large 
terra-cotta  pots  now  filled  with  orange-trees.  Here  and 
there  between  the  orange-trees  were  statues  transported 
from  Naples  in  the  late  eighteenth  century  by  a  former 
Lord  Tranmore.  There  was  a  Ceres  and  a  Diana,  a  Ves- 
tal Virgin,  an  Athlete,  and  an  Antinous,  now  brought 
into  strange  companionship  under  the  windows  of  this 

357 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

ugly  English  house.  Chipped  and  blackened  as  they 
were,  and,  to  begin  with,  of  a  mere  decorative  impor- 
tance, they  still  breathed  into  the  English  evening  a 
note  of  Italy  or  Greece,  of  things  lovely  and  immortal. 
The  lamps  in  the  sitting-rooms  streamed  out  through  the 
widely  opened  windows  upon  the  terrace,  checkering  the 
marble  figures,  which  now  emerged  sharply  in  the  light, 
and  now  withdrew  in  the  gloom ;  while  at  one  point  they 
shone  plainly  upon  an  empty  pedestal  before  which  the 
Dean  and  his  companion  paused. 

The  Dean  looked  at  the  inscription.  "What  a  pity! 
This  once  held  a  statue  of  Hebe  holding  a  torch.  It  was 
struck  by  lightning  fifty  years  ago." 

"Lady  Kitty  might  stand  for  her  to-night,"  said  Edith 
Manley. 

For  Kitty,  the  capricious,  had  appeared  at  dinner  in  a 
quasi-Greek  dress,  white,  soft,  and  flowing,  without  an 
ornament.     The  Dean  acquiesced,  but  rather  sadly. 

"I  wish  she  had  the  bloom  of  Hebe!  My  dear  Lady 
Edith,  our  hostess  looks  ill!" 

"Does  she?  I  can't  tell — I  admire  her  so!"  said  the 
woman  beside  him,  upon  whose  charming  eyes  some 
fairy  had  breathed  kindness  and  optimism  from  her 
cradle. 

"Ouf!"  cried  Kitty,  as  she  sprang  across  the  sill  of  the 
window  behind  them.  "They're  all  gone!  The  Bishop 
wishes  me  to  become  a  vice-president  of  the  Women's 
Diocesan  Association.  And  I've  promised  three  curates 
to  open  bazaars.  Ah,mon  Dieu!"  She  raised  her  white 
arms  with  a  wild  gesture,  and  then  beckoned  to  Eddie 
Helston,  who  was  close  beside  her. 

"  Shall  we  try  our  dance?" 
358 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  young  men  of  the  house,  a  group  of  young  guards- 
men and  diplomats,  gathered  round,  laughing  and  clap- 
ping. Kitty's  dancing  had  become  famous  during  the 
winter  as  one  of  her  many  extravagances.  She  no  longer 
recited ;  literature  bored  her ;  motion  was  the  only  poe- 
try. So  she  had  been  carefully  instructed  by  a  danseuse 
from  the  Opera,  and  in  many  points,  so  the  enthusiasts 
declared,  had  bettered  her  instructions.  She  was  now 
in  love  with  a  tempestuous  Spanish  dance,  taught  her 
by  a  gypsy  senorita  who  had  been  one  of  the  sensations  of 
the  London  season.  It  required  a  partner,  and  she  had 
been  practising  it  with  young  Helston,  for  several  morn- 
ings past,  in  the  empty  ballroom.  Helston  had  spread 
its  praises  abroad;  and  all  Haggart  desired  to  see  it. 

"There!"  said  Kitty,  pointing  her  partner  to  a  par- 
ticular spot  on  the  terrace.  "I  think  that  will  do.  Where 
are  the  castanets,  I  wonder?" 

"Kitty!"  said  a  voice  behind  her.  Ashe  emerged 
from  the  drawing-room. 

"Kitty,  please!  It  is  nearly  midnight.  Everybody 
is  tired — and  you  yourself  must  be  worn  out!  Say 
good-night,  and  let  us  all  go  to  bed." 

She  turned.  Willam's  voice  was  low,  but  peremp- 
tory. She  shook  back  her  hair  from  her  temples  and 
neck,  with  the  gesture  he  had  learned  to  dread. 

"Nobody's  tired — and  nobody  wants  to  go  to  bed. 
Please  stand  out  of  the  way,  William.  I  want  plenty  of 
room  for  my  steps." 

And  she  began  pirouetting,  as  though  to  try  the 
capacities  of  the  space,  humming  to  herself. 

"Helston — this  must  be,  please,  for  another  night," 
said  Ashe,  resolutely,  in  the  young  man's  ear.     "Lady 

359 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Kitty  is  much  too  tired."  Then  to  Lady  Edith,  and  the 
Dean — "Lady  Edith,  it  would  be  very  kind  of  you  to 
persuade  my  wife  to  go  to  bed.  She  never  knows  when 
she  is  done!" 

Lady  Edith  warmly  acquiesced,  and,  hurrying  up  to 
Kitty,  she  tried  to  persuade  her  in  soft,  caressing  phrases, 

"I  stand  on  my  rights!"  said  the  Dean,  following  her. 
"  If  my  hostess  is  used  up  to-night,  there'll  be  no  hostess 
for  me  to-morrow." 

Kitty  looked  at  them  all,  silent — her  head  bending 
forward,  a  curious  mSchant  look  in  the  eyes  that  shone 
beneath  the  slightly  frowning  brows.  Meanwhile,  by 
her  previous  order,  a  footman  had  brought  out  two 
silver  lamps  and  placed  them  on  a  small  table  a  little 
way  behind  her.  Whether  it  was  from  some  instinctive 
sense  of  the  beauty  of  the  small  figure  in  the  slender, 
floating  dress  under  the  deep  blue  of  the  night  sky  and 
amid  the  romantic  shadows  and  lights  of  the  terrace — or 
from  some  divination  of  things  significant  and  hidden 
— it  would  be  hard  to  say ;  but  the  group  of  spectators 
had  fallen  back  a  little  from  Kitty,  so  that  she  stood 
alone,  a  picture  lit  from  the  left  by  the  lamps  just 
brought  in. 

The  Dean  looked  at  her — troubled  by  her  wild  aspect 
and  the  evident  conflict  between  her  and  Ashe.  Then 
an  idea  flashed  into  his  mind,  filled  always,  like  that  of 
an  innocent  child,  with  the  images  of  poetry  and  ro- 
mance. 

"One  moment!"  he  said,  raising  his  hand.  "Lady 
Kitty,  you  spoil  us!  After  amusing  us  all  day,  now  you 
would  dance  for  us  all  night.  But  your  guests  won't 
let  you!     We  love  you  too  well,  and  we  want  a  bit  of 

360 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

you  left  for  to-morrow.     Never  mind!     You  offered  us 
a  dance — ^you  bring  us  a  vision — and  a  poem! — Friends!" 

He  turned  to  those  crowding  round  him,  his  white 
hair  glistening  in  the  lamplight,  his  delicate  face,  so  old 
and  yet  so  eager,  the  smile  on  his  kind  lips,  and  all  the 
details  of  his  Dean's  dress — apron  and  knee-breeches, 
slender  legs  and  silver  buckles — thrown  out  in  sharp 
relief  upon  the  dark.  .  .  . 

"Friends!  you  see  this  pedestal.  Once  Hebe,  the 
cup-bearer  of  the  gods,  stood  there.  Then — ungrateful 
Zeus  smote  her,  and  she  fell!  But  the  Hours  and  the 
Graces  bore  her  safe  away,  into  a  golden  land,  and 
now  they  bring  her  back  again.  Behold  her! — Hebe 
reborn!" 

He  bowed,  his  courtly  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  a 
wave  of  laughter  and  applause  ran  through  the  young 
group  round  him  as  their  eyes  turned  from  the  speaker 
to  the  exquisite  figure  of  Kitty.  Lady  Edith  smiled 
kindly,  clapping  her  soft  hands.  Mrs.  Winston,  the 
Dean's  wife,  had  eyes  only  for  the  Dean.  In  the  back- 
ground Lady  Tranmore  watched  every  phase  of  Kitty's 
looks,  and  Lord  Grosville  walked  back  into  the  dining- 
room,  growling  unutterable  things  to  Darrell  as  he 
passed. 

Kitty  raised  her  head  to  reply.  But  the  Dean  checked 
her.  Advancing  a  step  or  two,  he  saluted  her  again — 
profoundly. 

"Dear  Lady  Kitty! — dear  bringer  of  light  and  am- 
brosia!— rest,  and  good-night!  Your  guests  thank  you 
by  me,  with  all  their  hearts.  You  have  been  the  life  of 
their  day,  the  spirit  of  their  mirth.  Good-night  to 
Hebe! — and  three  cheers  for  Lady  Kitty!" 
24  361 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Eddie  Helston  led  them,  and  they  rang  against  the 
old  house.  Kitty  with  a  fluttering  smile  kissed  her 
hand  for  thanks,  and  the  Dean  saw  her  look  roimd — 
dart  a  swift  glance  at  Ashe.  He  stood  against  the  win- 
dow-frame, in  shadow,  motionless,  his  arms  folded. 

Then  suddenly  Kitty  sprang  forward. 

"Give  me  that  lamp!"  she  said  to  the  young  footman 
behind  her. 

And  in  a  second  she  had  leaped  upon  the  low  wall  of 
the  terrace  and  on  the  vacant  pedestal.  The  lad  to 
whom  she  had  spoken  lost  his  head  and  obeyed  her. 
He  raised  the  lamp.  She  stooped  and  took  it.  Ashe, 
who  was  now  standing  in  the  open  window  with  his  back 
to  the  terrace,  turned  round,  saw,  and  rushed  forward. 

"  Kitty! — put  it  down!" 

"Lady  Kitty!"  cried  the  Dean,  in  dismay,  while  all 
behind  him  held  their  breath. 

"Stand  back!"  said  Kitty,  "or  I  shall  drop  it!"  She 
held  up  the  lamp,  straight  and  steady.  Ashe  paused  - 
in  an  agony  of  doubt  what  to  do,  his  whole  soul  concen- 
trated on  the  slender  arm  and  on  the  brightly  burning 
lamp. 

"  If  you  make  me  speeches,"  said  Kitty,  "  I  must  reply, 
mustn't  I?  (Keep  back,  William! — I'm  all  right.) 
Hebe  thanks  you,  please — mille  foisi  She  herself  hasn't 
been  happy — and  she's  afraid  she  hasn't  been  good! 
NHmporte!  It's  all  done — and  finished.  The  plp.y's 
over! — and  the  lights  go  out!" 

She  waved  the  lamp  above  her  head. 

"Kitty!  for  God's  sake!"  cried  Ashe,  rushing  to  her. 

"She  is  mad!"  said  Lord  Parham,  standing  at  the 
back.     "I  always  knew  it!" 

■262 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  other  spectators  passed  through  a  second  of 
anguish.  The  bright  figure  on  the  pedestal  wavered; 
one  moment,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  lamp  must 
descend  crashing  upon  the  head  and  neck  and  the  white 
dress  beneath  it;  the  next,  it  had  fallen  from  Kitty's 
hand — fallen  away  from  her — wide  and  safe — into  the 
depths  of  the  garden  below.  A  flash  of  wild  light  rose 
from  the  burning  oil  and  from  the  dry  shrubs  amid 
which  it  fell.  Kitty,  meanwhile,  swayed — and  dropped 
— heavily — unconscious — into  William  Ashe's  arms. 

Kitty  barely  recovered  life  and  sense  during  the  night 
that  followed.  And  while  she  was  still  unconscious  her 
boy  passed  away.  The  poor  babe,  all  ignorant  of  the 
straits  in  which  his  mother  lay,  was  seized  with  convul- 
sions in  the  dawn,  and  gave  up  his  frail  life  gathered  to 
his  father's  breast. 

Some  ten  weeks  later,  towards  the  end  of  October, 
society  knew  that  the  Home  Secretary  and  Lady  Kitty 
had  started  for  Italy — bound  first  of  all  for  Venice.  It 
was  said  that  Lady  Kitty  was  a  wreck,  and  that  it  was 
doubtful  whether  she  would  ever  recover  the  sudden  and 
tragic  death  of  her  only  child. 


PART    IV 
STORM 

''  Myself,  arch-traitor  to  myself; 
My  hollowest  friend,  my  deadliest  foe, 
My  clog  whatever  road  I  go." 


XVII 

"'AMONG  the  numerous  daubs  with  which  Tintoret, 

l\  to  his  everlasting  shame,  has  covered  this 
church — '  " 

"Good  Heavens! — what  does  the  man  mean? — or  is 
he  talking  of  another  church  ?"  said  Ashe,  raising  his  head 
and  looking  in  bewilderment,  first  at  the  magnificent 
Tintoret  in  front  of  him,  and  then  at  the  lines  he  had  just 
been  reading. 

"William!"  cried  Kitty,  "do  put  that  fool  down  and 
come  here;  one  sees  it  splendidly!" 

She  was  standing  in  one  of  the  choir-stalls  of  San 
Giorgio  Maggiore,  somewhat  raised  above  the  point 
where  Ashe  had  been  studying  his  German  hand-book. 

"My  dear, if  this  man  doesn't  know,  who  does!"  cried 
Ashe,  flourishing  his  volume  in  front  of  him  as  he  obeyed 
her. 

"'  Dans  le  royaume  des  aveugles,'  "  said  Kitty,  con- 
temptuously. "As  if  any  German  could  even  begin  to 
understand  Tintoret!     But — don't  talk!" 

And  clasping  both  hands  round  Ashe's  arm,  she  stood 
leaning  heavily  upon  him,  her  whole  soul  gazing  from  the 
eyes  she  turned  upon  the  picture,  her  lips  quivering,  as 
though,  from  some  physical  weakness,  she  could  only 
just  hold  back  the  tears  with  which,  indeed,  the  face  was 
charged. 

367 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

She  and  Ashe  were  looking  at  that  "Last  Supper"  of 
Tintoret's  which  hangs  in  the  choir  of  San  Giorgio 
Maggiore  at  Venice. 

It  is  a  picture  dear  to  all  lovers  of  Tintoret,  breathing 
in  every  line  and  group  the  passionate  and  mystical 
fancy  of  the  master. 

The  scene  passes,  it  will  be  remembered,  in  what  seems 
to  be  the  spacious  guest-chamber  of  an  inn.  The  Lord 
and  His  disciples  are  gathered  round  the  last  sacred  meal 
of  the  Old  Covenant,  the  first  of  the  New.  On  the  left,  a 
long  table  stretches  from  the  spectator  into  the  depths  of 
the  picture ;  the  disciples  are  ranged  along  one  side  of  it ; 
and  on  the  other  sits  Judas,  solitary  and  accursed.  The 
young  Christ  has  risen ;  He  holds  the  bread  in  His  lifted 
hands  and  is  about  to  give  it  to  the  beloved  disciple,  while 
Peter  beyond,  rising  from  his  seat  in  his  eagerness, 
presses  forward  to  claim  his  own  part  in  the  Lord's 
body. 

The  action  of  the  Christ  has  in  it  a  very  ecstasy  of 
giving;  the  bending  form,  indeed,  is  love  itself,  yearning 
and  triumphant.  This  is  further  expressed  in  the  light 
which  streams  from  the  head  of  the  Lord,  playing  upon 
the  long  line  of  faces,  illuminating  the  vehement  gesture 
of  Peter,  the  adoring  and  radiant  silence  of  St.  John — 
and  striking  even  to  the  farthest  corners  of  the  room, 
upon  a  woman,  a  child,  a  playing  dog.  Meanwhile, 
from  the  hanging  lamps  above  the  supper  -  party  there 
glows  another  and  more  earthly  light,  mingled  with 
fumes  of  smoke  which  darken  the  upper  air.  But  such  is 
the  power  of  the  divine  figure  that  from  this  very  dark- 
ness breaks  adoration.  The  smoke-wreaths  change 
under  the  gazer's  eye  into  hovering  angels,  who  float 

368 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

round  the  head  of  the  Saviour,  and  look  down  with  awe 
upon  the  first  Eucharist;  while  the  lamp-light,  interpene- 
trated by  the  glory  which  issues  from  the  Lord,  searches 
every  face  and  fold  and  surface,  displays  the  figures  of 
the  serving  men  and  women  in  the  background,  shines 
on  the  household  stuff,  the  vases  and  plates,  the  black 
and  white  of  the  marble  floor,  the  beams  of  the  old 
Venetian  ceiling.  Everywhere  the  double  ray,  the  two- 
fold magic!  Steeped  in  these  "majesties  of  light,"  the 
immortal  scene  lives  upon  the  quiet  wall.  Year  after 
year  the  slender,  thought-worn  Christ  raises  His  hands 
of  blessing;  the  disciples  strain  towards  Him;  the  angels 
issue  from  the  darkness;  the  friendly  domestic  life, 
happy,  natural,  unconscious,  frames  the  divine  mystery. 
And  among  those  who  come  to  look  there  are,  from 
time  to  time,  men  and  women  who  draw  from  it  that 
restlessness  of  vague  emotion  which  Kitty  felt  as  she 
hung  now,  gazing,  on  Ashe's  arm. 

For  there  is  in  it  an  appeal  which  torments  them — 
like  the  winding  of  a  mystic  horn,  on  purple  heights,  by 
some  approaching  and  unseen  messenger.  Ineffable 
beauty,  offering  itself — and  in  the  human  soul,  the 
eternal  human  discord:  what  else  makes  the  poignancy 
of  art — the  passion  of  poetry? 

"That's  enough!"  said  Kitty,  at  last,  turning  abruptly 
away. 

"You  like  it?"  said  Ashe,  softly,  detaining  her,  while 
he  pressed  the  little  hand  upon  his  arm.  His  heart 
was  filled  with  a  great  pity  for  his  wife  in  these 
days. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  was  Kitty's  impatient  reply. 
369 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

"  It  haunts  me.     There's  still  another  to  see — in  a  chapel. 
The  sacristan's  making  signs  to  us." 

"  Is  there  ?"  Ashe  stifled  a  yawn.  He  asked  Margaret 
French,  who  had  come  up  with  them,  whether  Kitty  had 
not  had  quite  enough  sight-seeing.  He  himself  must  go 
to  the  Piazza  and  get  the  news  before  dinner.  As  an 
English  cabinet  minister,  he  had  been  admitted  to  the 
best  club  of  the  Venice  residents.  Telegrams  were  to 
be  seen  there;  and  there  was  anxious  news  from  the 
Balkans. 

Kitty  merely  insisted  that  she  could  not  and  would 
not  go  without  her  remaining  Tintoret,  and  the  others 
yielded  to  her  at  once,  with  that  indulgent  tenderness  one 
shows  to  the  wilfulness  of  a  sick  child.  She  and  Mar- 
garet followed  the  sacristan.  Ashe  lingered  behind  in  a 
passage  of  the  church,  surreptitiously  reading  an  Italian 
newspaper.  He  had  the  ordinary  cultivated  pleasure  in 
pictures;  but  this  ardor  which  Kitty  was  throwing  into 
her  pursuit  of  Tintoret — the  Wagner  of  painting — left 
him  cold.     He  did  not  attempt  to  keep  up  with  her. 

Two  ladies  were  already  in  the  cloister  chapel,  with  a 
gentleman.  As  Kitty  and  her  friend  entered,  these 
persons  had  just  finished  their  inspection  of  the  damaged 
but  most  beautiful  "  Pieta  "  which  hangs  over  the  altar, 
and  their  faces  were  towards  the  entrance. 

"Maman!"  cried  Kitty,  in  amazement. 

The  lady  addressed  started,  put  up  a  gold-rimmed 
eye-glass,  exclaimed,  and  hurried  forward. 

Kitty  and  she  embraced,  amid  a  torrent  of  laughter 
and  interjections  from  the  elder  lady,  and  then  Kitty, 
whose  pale  cheeks  had  put  on  scarlet,  turned  to  Margaret 
French. 

370 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Margaret! — my  mother,  Madame  d'Estrees." 

Miss  French,  who  found  herself  greeted  with  effusion 
by  the  strange  lady,  saw  before  her  a  woman  of  fifty, 
marvellously  preserved.  Madame  d'Estrees  had  grown 
stout;  so  much  time  had  claimed;  but  the  elegant  gray 
dress  with  its  floating  chiffon  and  lace  skilfully  concealed 
the  fact;  and  for  the  rest,  complexion,  eyes,  lips  were 
still  defiant  of  the  years.  If  it  were  art  that  had  achieved 
it,  nature  still  took  the  credit;  it  was  so  finely  done,  the 
spectator  could  only  lend  himself  and  admire.  Under 
the  pretty  hat  of  gray  tulle,  whereof  the  strings  were  tied 
bonnet-fashion  under  the  plump  chin,  there  looked  out, 
indeed,  a  face  gay,  happy,  unconcerned,  proof  one  might 
have  thought  of  an  innocent  past  and  a  good  con- 
science. 

Kitty,  who  had  drawn  back  a  little,  eyed  her  mother 
oddly. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  Paris.  Your  letter  said  you 
wouldn't  be  able  to  move  for  weeks — " 

"Ma  chere! — un  miracle!"  cried  Madame  d'Estrees, 
blushing,  however,  under  her  thin  white  veil.  "  When  I 
wrote  to  you,  I  was  at  death's  door — wasn't  I?"  She 
appealed  to  her  companion,  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer. "Then  some  one  told  me  of  a  new  doctor,  and  in 
ten  days,  me  voici!  They  insisted  on  my  going  away — ■ 
this  dear  woman — Donna  Laura  Vercelli — my  daughter, 
Lady  Kitty  Ashe! — knew  of  an  apartment  here  belong- 
ing to  some  relations  of  hers.  And  here  we  are — charm- 
ingly installees! — and  really  nothing  to  pay!" — Madame 
d'Estrees  whispered,  smiling,  in  Kitty's  ear — "nothing, 
compared  to  the  hotels.  I'm  economizing  splendidly. 
Laura  looks  after  every  sou.     Ah!  my  dear  William!" 

371 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

For  Ashe,  puzzled  by  the  voices  within,  had  entered 
the  chapel,  and  stood  in  his  turn,  open-mouthed. 

"Why,  we  thought  you  were  an  invalid." 

For,  some  three  weeks  before,  a  letter  had  reached 
him  at  Haggart,  so  full  of  melancholy  details  as  to 
Madame  d'Estr^es'  health  and  circumstances  that  even 
Kitty  had  been  moved.  Money  had  been  sent ;  inquiries 
had  been  made  by  telegraph ;  and  but  for  a  hasty  message 
of  a  more  cheerful  character,  received  just  before  they 
started,  the  Ashes,  instead  of  journeying  by  Brussels 
and  Cologne,  would  have  gone  by  Paris  that  Kitty 
might  see  her  mother.  They  had  intended  to  stop  there 
on  their  way  back.  Ashe  was  not  minded  that  Kitty 
should  see  more  of  Madame  d'Estrees  than  necessity 
demanded;  but  on  this  occasion  he  would  have  felt  it 
positively  brutal  to  make  difficulties. 

And  now  here  was  this  moribund  lady,  this  forsaken 
of  gods  and  men,  disporting  herself  at  Venice,  evidently 
in  the  pink  of  health  and  attired  in  the  freshest  of  Paris 
toilettes!  As  he  coldly  shook  hands,  Ashe  registered  an 
inner  vow  that  Madame  d'Estr6es'  letters  henceforward 
should  receive  the  attention  they  deserved. 

And  beside  her  was  her  somewhat  mysterious  friend  of 
London  days,  the  Colonel  Warington  who  had  been  so 
familiar  a  figure  in  the  gatherings  of  St.  James's  Place — 
grown  much  older,  almost  white-haired,  and  as  gentle- 
manly as  ever.  Who  was  the  lady  ?  Ashe  was  intro- 
duced, was  aware  of  a  somewhat  dark  and  Jewish  cast 
of  face,  noticed  some  fine  jewels,  and  could  only  suppose 
that  his  mother-in-law  had  picked  up  some  one  to  fi- 
nance her,  and  provide  her  with  creature  comforts  in  re- 
turn for  the  social  talents  that  Madame  d'Estrdes  still 

372 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

possessed  in  some  abundance.  He  had  more  than  once 
noticed  her  skill  in  similar  devices ;  but,  indeed,  they  were 
indispensable,  for  while  he  allowed  Madame  d'Estrees 
one  thousand  a  year,  she  was,  it  seemed,  firmly  deter- 
mined to  spend  a  minimum  of  three. 

He  and  Warington  looked  at  each  other  with  curios- 
ity. The  bronzed  face  and  honest  eyes  of  the  soldier 
betrayed  nothing.  "Are  you  going  to  marry  her  at 
last?"  thought  Ashe.     "Poor  devil!" 

Meanwhile  Madame  d'Estrees  chattered  away  as 
though  nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  their  meet- 
ing, or  more  perfect  than  the  relations  between  herself 
and  her  daughter  and  son-in-law. 

As  they  all  strolled  down  the  church  she  looked  keen- 
ly at  Kitty. 

"My  dear  child,  how  ill  you  look! — and  your  mourn- 
ing! Ah,  yes,  of  course!" — she  bit  her  lip — "  I  remember 
— the  poor,  poor  boy — " 

"Thank  you!"  said  Kitty,  hastily.  "I  got  your  let- 
ter— thank  you  very  much.  Where  are  you  staying  ? 
We've  got  rooms  on  the  Grand  Canal." 

"Oh,  but,  Kitty!"  cried  Madame  d'Estrees — "I  was 
so  sorry  for  you!" 

"Were  you?"  said  Kitty,  under  her  breath.  "Then, 
please,  never  speak  of  him  to  me  again!" 

Startled  and  offended,  Madame  d'Estrees  looked  at 
her  daughter.  But  what  she  saw  disarmed  her.  For 
once  even  she  felt  something  like  the  pang  of  a  mother. 
"You're  dreadfully  thin,  Kitty!" 

Kitty  frowned  with  annoyance. 

"It's  not  my  fault,"  she  said,  pettishly.  "I  live  on 
cream,  and  it's  no  good.     Of  course,  I  know  I'm  an  ob- 

373 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ject  and  a  scarecrow;  but  I'd  rather  people  didn't  tell 
me." 

"  What  nonsense,  chere  enfant !  You're  much  prettier 
than  you  ever  were." 

A  wild  and  fugitive  radiance  swept  across  the  face 
beside  her. 

"Am  I?"  said  Kitty,  smiling.  "That's  all  right!  If 
I  had  died  it  wouldn't  matter,  of  course.     But — " 

"Died!  What  do  you  mean,  Kitty?"  said  Madame 
d'Estrees,  in  bewilderment.  "When  William  wrote  to 
me  I  thought  he  meant  you  had  overtired  yourself." 

"Oh,  well,  the  doctors  said  it  was  touch  and  go," 
said  Kitty,  indifferently.  "But,  of  course,  it  wasn't. 
I'm  much  too  tough.  And  then  they  fussed  about  one's 
heart.  And  that's  all  nonsense,  too.  I  couldn't  die  if  I 
tried." 

But  Madame  d'Estrees  pondered — the  bright,  inter- 
mittent color,  the  emaciation,  the  hollowness  of  the 
eyes.  The  effect,  so  far,  was  to  add  to  Kitty's  natural 
distinction,  to  give,  rather,  a  touch  of  pathos  to  a  face 
which  even  in  its  wildest  mirth  had  in  it  something  alien 
and  remote.  But  she,  too,  reflected  that  a  little  more, 
a  very  little  more,  and — in  a  night — the  face  would 
have  dropped  its  beauty,  as  a  rose  its  petals. 

The  group  stood  talking  awhile  on  the  steps  outside 
the  church.  Kitty  and  her  mother  exchanged  ad- 
dresses, Donna  Laura  opened  her  mouth  once  or  twice, 
and  produced  a  few  contorted  smiles  for  Kitty's  benefit, 
while  Colonel  Warington  tipped  the  sacristan,  found  the 
gondolier,  and  studied  the  guide-book. 

As  Madame  d'Estrees  stepped  into  her  gondola,  as- 
sisted by  him,  she  tapped  him  on  the  arm. 

374 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Are  you  coming,  Markham?" 

The  low  voice  was  pitched  in  a  very  intimate  note. 
Kitty  turned  with  a  start. 

"A  casa!"  said  Madame  d'Estrees,  and  she  and  her 
friend  made  for  one  of  the  canals  that  pierce  the  Zattere, 
while  Colonel  Warington  went  off  for  a  walk  along  the 
Giudecca. 

Kitty  and  Ashe  bade  their  gondoliers  take  them  to 
the  Piazzetta,  and  presently  they  were  gliding  across 
waters  of  flame  and  silver,  where  the  white  front  and 
red  campanile  of  San  Giorgio — now  blazing  under  the 
sunset — mirrored  themselves  in  the  lagoon.  The  au- 
tumn evening  was  fresh  and  gay.  A  light  breeze  was 
on  the  water;  lights  that  only  Venice  knows  shone  on 
the  tawny  sails  of  fishing-boats  making  for  the  Lido,  on 
the  white  sides  of  an  English  yacht,  on  the  burnished 
prows  of  the  gondolas,  on  the  warm  reddish-white  of 
the  Ducal  Palace.  The  air  blowing  from  the  Adriatic 
breathed  into  their  faces  the  strength  of  the  sea ;  and  in 
the  far  distance,  above  that  line  of  buildings  where  lies 
the  heart  of  Venice,  the  high  ghosts  of  the  Friulian 
Alps  glimmered  amid  the  sweeping  regiments  and  pur- 
ple shadows  of  the  land-hurrying  clouds. 

"This  does  you  good,  darling!"  said  Ashe,  stooping 
down  to  look  into  his  wife's  face,  as  she  nestled  beside 
him  on  the  soft  cushions  of  the  gondola. 

Kitty  gave  him  a  slight  smile,  then  said,  with  a  fur- 
rowed brow: 

"Who  could  ever  have  thought  we  should  find  maman 
here!" 

"Don't  have  her  on  your  mind!"  said  Ashe,  with 
375 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

some  sharpness.  "I  can't  have  anything  worrying 
you." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"Is  that  man  going  to  marry  her — at  last?  She 
called  him  'Markham.'     That's  new." 

"Looks  rather  like  it,"  said  Ashe.  "Then  he'll  have 
to  look  after  the  debts!" 

They  began  to  piece  together  what  they  knew  of 
Colonel  Warington  and  his  relation  to  Madame  d'Es- 
trees.  It  was  not  much.  But  Ashe  believed  that  origi- 
nally Warington  had  not  been  in  love  with  her  at  all. 
There  had  been  a  love-affair  between  her  and  Waring- 
ton's  younger  brother,  a  smart  artillery  officer,  when  she 
was  the  widowed  Lady  Blackwater.  She  had  behaved 
with  more  heart  and  scruple  than  she  had  generally  been 
known  to  do  in  these  matters,  and  the  young  officer 
adored  her — hoped,  indeed,  to  marry  her.  But  he  was 
called  on — in  Paris — to  fight  a  duel  on  her  account,  and 
was  killed.  Before  fighting,  he  had  commended  Lady 
Blackwater  to  the  care  of  his  much  older  brother,  also  a 
soldier,  between  whom  and  himself  there  existed  a  rare 
and  passionate  devotion;  and  ever  since  the  poor  lad's 
death,  Markham  Warington  had  been  the  friend  and 
quasi-guardian  of  the  lady — through  her  second  mar- 
riage, through  the  checkered  years  of  her  existence  in 
London,  and  now  through  the  later  years  of  her  residence 
on  the  Continent,  a  residence  forced  upon  her  by  her 
agreement  with  the  Tranmores.  Again  and  again  he 
had  saved  her  from  bankruptcy,  or  from  some  worse 
scandal  which  would  have  wrecked  the  last  remnants  of 
her  fame. 

But,  all  the  time,  he  was  himself  bound  by  strong 
376 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ties  of  gratitude  and  affection  to  an  elder  sister  who  had 
brought  him  up,  with  whom  he  lived  in  Scotland  during 
half  the  year.  And  this  stout  Puritan  lady  detested  the 
very  name  of  Madame  d'Estrees. 

"But  she's  dead,"  said  Ashe.  "I  remember  noticing 
her  death  in  the  Times  some  three  months  ago.  That, 
of  course,  explains  it.     Now  he's  free  to  marry." 

"And  so  maman  will  settle  down,  and  be  happy  ever 
afterwards!"  said  Kitty,  with  a  sarcastic  lifting  of  the 
brow.     "Why  should  anybody  be  good?" 

The  bitterness  of  her  look  struck  Ashe  disagreeably. 
That  any  child  should  speak  so  of  a  mother  was  a  tragic 
and  sinister  thing.  But  he  was  well  aware  of  the 
causes. 

"Were  you  very  unhappy  when  you  were  a  child, 
Kitty?"     He  pressed  the  hand  he  held. 

"No,"  said  Kitty,  shortly.  "I'm  too  like  maman.  I 
suppose,  really,  at  bottom,  I  liked  all  the  debts,  and  the 
excitement,  and  the  shady  people!" 

"That  wasn't  the  impression  you  gave  me,  in  the  first 
days  of  our  acquaintance!"  said  Ashe,  laughing. 

"Oh,  then  I  was  grown  up — and  there  were  draw- 
backs. But  I'm  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  maman,"  she 
said, obstinately — "except  that  I  can't  tell  so  many  fibs. 
That's  really  why  we  didn't  get  on." 

Her  brown  eyes  held  him  with  that  strange,  unspoken 
defiance  it  seemed  so  often  beyond  her  power  to  hide. 
It  was  like  the  fluttering  of  some  caged  thing  hunger- 
ing for  it  knows  not  what.  Then,  as  they  scanned  the 
patient  good-temper  of  his  face,  they  melted;  and  her 
little  fingers  squeezed  his;  while  Margaret  French  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  two  columns  of  the  Piazzetta. 

377 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  How  strange  to  find  her  here!"  said  Kitty,  under  her 
breath.     "Now,  if  it  had  been  AUce — my  sister  Ahce!" 

William  nodded.  It  had  been  known  to  them  for 
some  time  that  Lady  Alice  Wensleydale,  to  whom  Italy 
had  become  a  second  country,  had  settled  in  a  villa  near 
Treviso,  where  she  occupied  herself  with  a  lace  school  for 
women  and  girls. 

The  mention  of  her  sister  threw  Kitty  into  what 
seemed  to  be  a  disagreeable  reverie.  The  flush  brought 
by  the  sea-wind  faded.     Ashe  looked  at  her  with  anxiety. 

"  You  have  done  too  much,  Kitty — as  usual!" 

His  voice  was  almost  angry. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  You  know  very  well  it  would 
he  much  better  for  you  if — " 

"If  what?" 

"  If  I  followed  Harry."  The  words  were  just  breathed, 
and  her  eyes  shrank  from  meeting  his.  Ashe,  on  the 
other  hand,  turned  and  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"Are  you  quite  determined  I  sha'n't  get  any  joy  out 
of  my  holiday?" 

She  shook  her  head  uncertainly.  Then,  almost 
immediately,  she  began  to  chatter  to  Margaret  French 
about  the  sights  of  the  lagoon,  with  her  natural  trcnch- 
ancy  and  fun.  But  her  hand,  hidden  under  the  folds  of 
her  black  cloak,  still  clung  to  William's. 

"It  is  her  illness,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  the  loss  of 
the  child." 

And  at  the  remembrance  of  his  little  son,  a  wave  of 
sore  j'earning  filled  his  own  heart.  Deep  under  the  oc- 
cupations and  interests  of  the  mind  lay  this  passionate 
regret,  and  at  any  moment  of  pause  or  silence  its  "  buried 

378 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

life  "  arose  and  seized  him.  But  he  was  a  busy  pohtician, 
absorbed  even  in  these  days  of  holiday  by  the  questions 
and  problems  of  the  hour.  And  Kitty  was  a  delicate 
woman — with  no  defence  against  the  torture  of  grief. 

He  thought  of  those  first  days  after  the  child's  death, 
when  in  spite  of  the  urgency  of  the  doctors  it  had  been 
impossible  to  keep  the  news  from  Kitty ;  of  the  ghastly 
effect  of  it  upon  nerves  and  brain  already  imperilled 
by  causes  only  half  intelligible;  of  those  sudden  flights 
from  her  nurses,  when  the  days  of  convalescence  began, 
to  the  child's  room,  and,  later,  to  his  grave.  There  was 
stinging  pain  in  these  recollections.  Nor  was  he,  in 
truth,  much  reassured  by  his  wife's  more  recent  state. 
It  was  impossible,  indeed,  that  he  should  give  it  the 
same  constant  thought  as  a  woman  might — or  a  man  of 
another  and  more  emotional  type.  At  this  moment, 
perhaps,  he  had  literally  no  time  for  the  subtleties  of  in- 
trospective feeling,  even  had  his  temperament  inclined 
him  to  them,  which  was,  in  truth,  not  the  case.  He 
knew  that  Kitty  had  suddenly  and  resolutely  ceased  to 
talk  about  the  boy,  had  thrown  herself  with  the  old 
energy  into  new  pursuits,  and,  since  she  came  to  Venice 
in  particular,  had  shown  a  feverish  desire  to  fill  every 
hour  with  movement  and  sight-seeing. 

But  was  she,  in  truth,  much  better — in  body  or  soul  ? 
— poor  child!  The  doctors  had  explained  her  illness  as 
nervous  collapse,  pointing  back  to  a  long  preceding  peri- 
od of  overstrain  and  excitement.  There  had  been  sus- 
picions of  tubercular  mischief,  but  no  precise  test  was 
then  at  command ;  and  as  Kitty  had  improved  with  rest 
and  feeding  the  idea  had  been  abandoned.  But  Ashe 
was  still  haunted  by  it,  though  quite  ready — being  a 

379 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

natural  optimist — to  escape  from  it,  and  all  other  in- 
curable anxieties,  as  soon  as  Kitty  herself  should  give  the 
signal. 

As  to  the  moral  difficulties  and  worries  of  those 
months  at  Haggart,  Ashe  remembered  them  as  little  as 
might  be.  Kitty's  illness,  indeed,  had  shown  itself  in 
more  directions  than  one,  as  an  amending  and  appeasing 
fact.  Even  Lord  Parham  had  been  moved  to  compas- 
sion and  kindness  by  the  immediate  results  of  that  hor- 
rible scene  on  the  terrace.  His  leave  -  taking  from 
Ashe  on  the  morning  afterwards  had  been  almost  cor- 
dial— almost  intimate.  And  as  to  Lady  Tranmore, 
whenever  she  had  been  able  to  leave  her  paralyzed  hus- 
band she  had  been  with  Kitty,  nursing  her  with  affec- 
tionate wisdom  night  and  day.  While  on  the  other 
members  of  the  Haggart  party  the  sheer  pity  of  Kitty's 
condition  had  worked  with  surprising  force.  Lord  Gros- 
ville  had  actually  made  his  wife  offer  Grosville  Park  for 
Kitty's  convalescence — Kitty  got  her  first  laugh  out  of 
the  proposal.  The  Dean  had  journeyed  several  times 
from  his  distant  cathedral  town  to  see  and  sit  with 
Kitty;  Eddie  Helston's  flowers  had  been  almost  a  nui- 
sance; Mrs.  Alcot  had  shown  herself  quite  soft  and 
human. 

The  effect,  indeed,  of  this  general  sympathy  on  Lord 
Parham's  relations  to  the  chief  member  of  his  cabinet 
had  been  but  small  and  passing.  Ashe  disliked  and  dis- 
trusted him  more  than  ever;  and  whatever  might  have 
happened  to  the  Premier's  resentment  of  a  particular 
offence,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  a  visit  from  which 
Ashe  had  hoped  much  had  ended  in  complete  failure, 
that  Parham  was  disposed  to  cross  his  powerful  hench- 

380 


The    Marriage    o^  William    Ashe 

man  where  he  could,  and  that  intrigue  was  busy  in  the 
cabinet  itself  against  the  reforming  party  of  which  Ashe 
was  the  head  Ashe,  indeed,  felt  his  own  official  posi- 
tion, outwardly  so  strong,  by  no  means  secure.  But 
the  game  of  politics  was  none  the  less  exhilarating  for 
that. 

As  to  Kitty's  relation  to  himself — and  life's  most  inti- 
mate and  tender  things^in  these  days,  did  he  probe 
his  own  consciousness  much  concerning  them?  Prob- 
ably not.  Was  he  aware  that,  when  all  was  said  and 
done,  in  spite  of  her  misdoings,  in  spite  of  his  passion  of 
anxiety  during  her  illness,  in  spite  of  the  pity  and  affec- 
tion of  his  daily  attitude,  Kitty  occupied,  in  truth,  much 
less  of  his  mind  than  she  had  ever  yet  occupied  ? — that  a 
certain  magic — primal,  incommunicable — had  ceased  to 
clothe  her  image  in  his  thoughts? 

Again — probably  not.  For  these  slow  changes  in  a 
man's  inmost  personality  are  like  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
summer  tides  over  estuary  sands.  Silent,  the  main 
creeps  in,  or  out;  and  while  we  dream,  the  great  basin 
fills,  and  the  fishing-boats  come  in — or  the  gentle,  pitiless 
waters  draw  back  into  the  bosom  of  ocean,  and  the  sea- 
birds  run  over  the  wide,  untenanted  flats. 

They  landed  at  the  Piazzetta  as  the  lamps  were 
being  lit.  The  soft  October  darkness  was  falling  fast, 
and  on  the  ledges  of  St.  Mark's  and  the  Ducal  Palace 
the  pigeons  had  begun  to  roost.  An  animated  crowd 
was  walking  up  and  down  in  the  Piazza,  where  a  band 
was  playing;  and  on  the  golden  horses  of  St.  Mark's 
there  shone  a  pale  and  mystical  light,  the  last  reflection 
from  the  western  sky.     Under  the  colonnades  the  jew- 

381 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

ellers  and  glass-shops  blazed  and  sparkled,  and  the 
warm  sea-wind  fluttered  the  Italian  flags  on  the  great 
flag-staffs  that  but  so  recently  had  borne  the  Austrian 
eagle. 

Ashe  walked  with  his  head  thrown  back,  thinking 
absently,  in  this  centre  of  Venice,  of  English  politics,  and 
of  a  phrase  of  Metternich's  he  had  come  across  in  a 
volume  of  memoirs  he  had  been  lately  reading  on  the 
journey : 

"Le  jour  qui  court  n'a  aucune  valeur  pour  moi,  ex- 
cepte  comme  la  veille  du  lendemain.  C'est  toujours 
avec  le  lendemain  que  mon  esprit  lutte." 

The  phrase  pleased  him  particularly. 

He,  too,  was  wrestling  with  the  morrow,  though  in 
another  sense  than  Metternich's.  His  mind  was  alive 
with  projects;  an  exultant  consciousness  both  of  capacity 
and  opportunity  possessed  him. 

"Why,  you've  passed  the  club,  William!"  said  Kitty. 

Ashe  awoke  with  a  start,  smiled  at  her,  and  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand  disappeared  in  a  stairway  to  the  right. 

Margaret  French  lingered  in  a  bead-shop  to  make 
some  purchases.  Kitty  walked  home  alone,  and  Mar- 
garet, whose  watchful  affection  never  failed,  knew  that 
she  preferred  it,  and  let  her  go  her  way. 

The  Ashes  had  rooms  on  the  first  bend  of  the  Grand 
Canal  looking  south.  To  reach  them  by  land  from  the 
Piazza,  Kitty  had  to  pass  through  a  series  of  narrow 
streets,  or  calles,  broken  by  campos,  or  small  squares,  in 
which  stood  churches.  As  she  passed  one  of  these 
churches  she  was  attracted  by  the  sound  of  gay  music 
and  by  the  crowd  about  the  entrance.  Pushing  aside 
the  leathern  curtain  over  the  door,  she  found  herself  in 

382 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

a  great  rococo  nave,  which  blazed  with  Hghts  and  dec- 
orations. Lines  of  huge  wax  candles  were  fixed  in  tem- 
porary holders  along  the  floor.  The  pillars  were  swathed 
in  rose-colored  damask,  and  the  choir  was  ablaze  with 
flowers,  and  even  more  brilliantly  lit,  if  possible,  than 
the  rest  of  the  church. 

Kitty's  Catholic  training  told  her  that  an  exposition 
of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  was  going  on.  Mechanically 
she  dipped  her  fingers  into  the  holy  water,  she  made  her 
genuflection  to  the  altar,  and  knelt  down  in  one  of  the 
back  rows. 

How  rich  and  sparkling  it  was — the  lights,  the  bright 
colors,  the  dancing  music  !  "  Dolce  Sacramento  !  Santo 
Sacramento !"  these  words  of  an  Italian  hymn  or  litany 
recurred  again  and  again,  with  endless  iteration.  Kitty's 
sensuous,  excitable  nature  was  stirred  with  delight. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  remembered  her  child,  and  the 
little  face  she  had  seen  for  the  last  time  in  the  coffin. 
She  began  to  cry  softly,  hiding  her  face  in  her  black 
veil.  An  unbearable  longing  possessed  her.  "I  shall 
never  have  another  child,"  she  thought.  "That's  all 
over." 

Then  her  thoughts  wandered  back  to  the  party  at 
Haggart,  to  the  scene  on  the  terrace,  and  to  that  rush  of 
excitement  which  had  mastered  her,  she  scarcely  knew 
how  or  why.  She  could  still  hear  the  Dean's  voice — see 
the  lamp  wavering  above  her  head.  "What  possessed 
me!  I  didn't  care  a  straw  whether  the  lamp  set  me  on 
fire — whether  I  lived  or  died.     I  wanted  to  die." 

Was  it  because  of  that  short  conversation  with 
William  in  the  afternoon  ? — because  of  the  calmness  with 
which  he  had  taken  that  word  "separation,"  which  she 

383 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

had  thrown  at  him  merely  as  a  child  boasts  and  threat- 
ens, never  expecting  for  one  moment  to  be  taken  at  its 
word?  She  had  proposed  it  to  him  before,  after  the 
night  at  Hamel  Weir;  she  had  been  serious  then,  it  had 
been  an  impulse  of  remorse,  and  he  had  laughed  at  her. 
But  at  Haggart  it  had  been  an  impulse  of  temper,  and 
he  had  taken  it  seriously.  How  the  wound  had  rankled, 
all  the  afternoon,  while  she  was  chattering  to  the  Royal- 
ties! And  as  she  jumped  on  the  pedestal,  and  saw  his 
face  of  horror,  there  was  the  typical  womanish  triumph 
that  she  had  made  him  jeel — would  make  him  feel  yet 
more. 

How  good,  how  tender  he  had  been  to  her  in  her 
illness!     And  yet— yet? 

"He  cares  for  politics,  for  his  plans — not  for  me. 
He  will  never  trust  me  again — as  he  did  once.  He'll 
never  ask  me  to  help  him — he'll  find  ways  not  to — 
though  he'll  be  very  sweet  to  me  all  the  time." 

And  the  thought  of  her  nullity  with  him  in  the  future, 
her  insignificance  in  his  life,  tortured  her. 

Why  had  she  treated  Lord  Parham  so?  "I  can  be  a 
lady  when  I  choose,"  she  said, mockingly, to  herself.  "I 
wasn't  even  a  lady." 

Then  suddenly  there  flashed  on  her  memory  a  little 
picture  of  Lord  Parham,  standing  spectacled  and  be- 
wildered, peering  into  her  slip  of  paper.  She  bent  her 
head  on  her  hands  and  laughed,  a  stifled,  hysterical 
laugh,  which  scandalized  the  woman  kneeling  beside  her. 

But  the  laugh  was  soon  quenched  again  in  restless 
pain.  William's  affection  had  been  her  only  refuge  in 
those  weeks  of  moral  and  physical  misery  she  had  just 
passed  through. 

3^4 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"But  it's  only  because  he's  so  terribly  sorry  for  me. 
It's  all  quite  different.  And  I  can't  ever  make  him 
love  me  again  in  the  old  way.  ...  It  wasn't  my  fault. 
It's  something  born  in  me — that  catches  me  by  the 
throat." 

And  she  had  the  actual  physical  sense  of  some  one 
strangled  by  a  possessing  force. 

''Dolce  Sacramento !  Santo  Sacramento !''  .  .  .  The 
music  swayed  and  echoed  through  the  church.  Kitty 
uncovered  her  eyes  and  felt  a  sudden  exhilaration  in  the 
blaze  of  light.  It  reminded  her  of  the  bending  Christ  in 
the  picture  of  San  Giorgio.  Awe  and  beauty  flowed  in 
upon  her,  in  spite  of  the  poor  music  and  the  tawdry 
church.  What  if  she  tried  religion?  —  recalled  what 
she  had  been  taught  in  the  convent  ? — gave  herself  up  to 
a  director? 

She  shivered  and  recoiled.  How  would  she  ever 
maintain  her  faith  against  William — William,  who  knew 
so  much  more  than  she? 

Then,  into  the  emptiness  of  her  heart  there  stole  the 
inevitable  temptations  of  memory.  Where  was  Geoff- 
rey ?  She  knew  well  that  he  was  a  violent  and  selfish 
man ;  but  he  understood  much  in  her  that  William  would 
never  understand.  With  a  morbid  eagerness  she  re- 
called the  play  of  feeling  between  them,  before  that  mad 
evening  at  Hamel  Weir.  What  perpetual  excitement — 
no  time  to  think — or  regret! 

During  her  weeks  of  illness  she  had  lost  all  count  of 
his  movements.  Had  he  been  still  writing  during  the 
summer  for  the  newspaper  which  had  sent  him  out? 
Had  there  not  been  rumors  of  his  being  wounded — or 
attacked  by  fever?     Her  memory,  still  vague  and  weak, 

385 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

struggled  painfully  with  memories  it  could  not  recapt- 
ure. 

The  Italian  paper  of  that  morning — she  had  spelled  it 
out  for  herself  at  breakfast— had  spoken  of  a  defeat  of 
the  insurrectionary  forces,  and  of  their  withdrawal  into 
the  highlands  of  Bosnia.  There  would  be  a  lull  in 
the  fighting.  Would  he  come  home?  And  all  this 
time  had  he  been  the  mere  spectator  and  reporter,  or 
fighting,  himself?  Her  pulses  leaped  as  she  thought 
of  him  leading  down  -  trodden  peasants  against  the 
Turk. 

But  she  knew  nothing.  Surely  during  the  last  few 
months  he  had  purposely  made  a  mystery  of  his  do- 
ings and  his  whereabouts.  The  only  sign  of  him  which 
seemed  to  have  reached  England  had  been  that  volume 
of  poems — with  those  hateful  lines!  Her  lip  quivered. 
She  was  like  a  weak  child — unable  to  bear  the  thought 
of  anything  hostile  and  unkind. 

If  he  had  already  turned  homeward?  Perhaps  he 
would  come  through  Venice!  Anyway,  he  was  not  far 
off.  The  day  before  she  and  Margaret  had  made  their 
first  visit  to  the  Lido.  And  as  Kitty  stood  fronting  the 
Adriatic  waves,  she  had  dreamed  that  somewhere,  be- 
yond the  farther  coast,  were  those  Bosnian  mountains 
in  which  Geoffrey  had  passed  the  winter. 

Then  she  started  at  her  own  thoughts,  rose — loathing 
herself — drew  down  her  veil,  and  moved  towards  the 
door. 

As  she  reached  the  leathern  curtain  which  hung  over 
the  doorway,  a  lady  in  front  who  was  passing  through 
held  the  curtain  aside  that  Kitty  might  follow.  Kitty 

386 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

stepped  into  the  street  and  looked  up  to  say  a  mechanical 
"Thank  you." 

But  the  word  died  on  her  lips.  She  gave  a  stifled  cry, 
which  was  echoed  by  the  woman  before  her. 

Both  stood  motionless,  staring  at  each  other. 

Kitty  recovered  herself  first. 

"  It's  not  my  fault  that  we've  met,"  she  said,  panting  a 
little.  "  Don't  look  at  me  so — so  unkindly.  I  know  you 
don't  want  to  see  me.  Why — why  should  we  speak  at 
all?  I'm  going  away."  And  she  turned  with  a  gesture 
of  farewell. 

Alice  Wensleydale  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  Kitty's 
arm. 

"No!  stay  a  moment.  You  are  in  black.  You  look 
ill." 

Kitty  turned  towards  her.  They  had  moved  on  in- 
stinctively into  the  shelter  of  one  of  the  narrow  streets. 

"My  boy  died — two  months  ago,"  she  said,  holding 
herself  proudly  aloof. 

Lady  Alice  started. 

"I  hadn't  heard.  I'm  very  sorry  for  you.  How  old 
was  he  ?" 

"Three  years  old." 

"Poor  baby!"  The  words  were  very  low  and  soft. 
"My  boy — was  fourteen.  But  you  have  other  chil- 
dren?" 

"No  —  and  I  don't  want  them.  They  might  die, 
too." 

Lady  Alice  paused.  She  still  held  her  half-sister  by 
the  arm,  towering  above  her.  She  was  quite  as  thin  as 
Kitty,  but  much  taller  and  more  largely  built;  and,  be- 
side the  elaborate  elegance  of  Kitty's  mourning,  Alice's 

387 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

black  veil  and  dress  had  a  severe,  conventual  air.  They 
were  almost  the  dress  of  a  religious. 

"How  are  you?"  she  said,  gently.  "I  often  think  of 
you.     Are  you  happy  in  your  marriage  ?" 

Kitty  laughed. 

"  We're  such  a  happy  lot,  aren't  we  ?  We  understand 
it  so  well.  Oh,  don't  trouble  about  me.  You  know  you 
said  you  couldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  Are 
you  staying  in  Venice?" 

"I  came  in  from  Treviso  for  a  day  or  two,  to  see  a 
friend—" 

"You  had  better  not  stay,"  said  Kitty,  hastily. 
"Maman  is  here.  At  least,  if  you  don't  want  to  run 
across  her." 

Lady  Alice  let  go  her  hold. 

"I  shall  go  home  to-morrow  morning." 

They  moved  on  a  fev/  steps  in  silence,  then  Alice 
paused.  Kitty's  delicate  face  and  cloud  of  hair  made  a 
pale,  luminous  spot  in  the  darkness  of  the  calle.  Alice 
looked  at  her  with  emotion. 

"I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

"Yes?" 

"If  you  are  ever  in  trouble — if  you  ever  want  me, 
send  for  me.  Address  Treviso,  and  it  will  always  find 
me." 

Kitty  made  no  reply.  They  had  reached  a  bridge 
over  a  side  canal,  and  she  stopped,  leaning  on  the 
parapet. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said?"  asked  her  companion. 

"Yes.  I'll  remember.  I  suppose  you  think  it  your 
duty.     What  do  you  do  with  yourself?" 

"I  h9.ve  two  orphan  children  I  bring  up.  And  there 
388 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

is  my  lace-school.  It  doesn't  get  on  much;  but  it  oc- 
cupies me." 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

"Yes." 

"Wish  I  was!"  said  Kitty.  She  hung  over  the  marble 
balustrade  in  silence,  looking  at  the  crescent  moon  that 
was  just  peering  over  the  eastern  palaces  of  the  canal. 
"My  husband  is  in  politics,  you  know.  He's  Home 
Secretary." 

"Yes,  I  heard.     Do  you  help  him?" 

"No — just  the  other  thing." 

Kitty  lifted  up  a  pebble  and  let  it  drop  into  the 
water. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  said  Alice 
Wensleydale,  coldly.  "If  you  don't  help  him  you'll  be 
sorry — when  it's  too  late  to  be  sorry." 

"Oh,  I  know!"  said  Kitty.  Then  she  moved  rest- 
lessly. "I  must  go  in.  Good-night."  She  held  out 
her  hand. 

Lady  Alice  took  it. 

"Good-night.     And  remember!" 

"I  sha'n't  want  anybody,"  said  Kitty.  " Addio !" 
She  waved  her  hand,  and  Alice  Wensleydale,  whose  way 
lay  towards  the  Piazza,  saw  her  disappear,  a  small 
tripping  shadow,  between  the  high,  close-piled  houses. 

Kitty  was  in  so  much  excitement  after  this  conversa- 
tion that  when  she  reached  the  Campo  San  Maurizio, 
where  she  should  have  turned  abruptly  to  the  left,  she 
wandered  awhile  up  and  down  the  campo,  looking  at  the 
gondolas  on  the  Traghetto  between  it  and  the  Accademia, 
at  the  Church  of  San  Maurizio,  at  the  rising  moon,  and 

389 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

the  bright  lights  in  some  of  the  shop  windows  of  the 
small  streets  to  the  north.  The  sea- wind  was  still  warm 
and  gusty,  and  the  waves  in  the  Grand  Canal  beat 
against  the  marble  feet  of  its  palaces. 

At  last  she  found  her  way  through  narrow  passages, 
past  hidden  and  historic  buildings,  to  the  back  of  the 
palace  on  the  Grand  Canal  in  which  their  rooms  were. 
A  door  in  a  small  court  opened  to  her  ring.  She  found 
herself  in  a  dark  ground  -  floor — empty  except  for  the 
jelze  or  black  top  of  a  gondola — of  which  the  farther 
doors  opened  on  the  canal.  A  cheerful  Italian  servant 
brought  lights,  and  on  the  marble  stairs  was  her  maid 
waiting  for  her.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was  on  her  sofa 
by  a  bright  wood  fire,  while  Blanche  hovered  round  her 
with  many  small  attentions. 

"Have  you  seen  your  letters,  my  lady?"  and  Blanche 
handed  her  a  pile.  Upon  a  parcel  lying  uppermost 
Kitty  pounced  at  once  with  avidity.  She  tore  it  open — 
pausing  once,  with  scarlet  cheeks,  to  look  round  her  at 
the  door,  as  though  she  were  afraid  of  being  seen. 

A  book — fresh  and  new — emerged.  Politics  and  the 
Country  Houses;  so  ran  the  title  on  the  back.  Kitty 
looked  at  it  frowning.  "He  might  have  found  a  better 
name!"  Then  she  opened  it — looked  at  a  page  here  and 
a  page  there — laughed,  shivered — and  at  last  bethought 
her  to  read  the  note  from  the  publisher  which  accom- 
panied it. 

"  '  Much  pleasure — the  first  printed  copy — three  more 
to  follow — sure  to  make  a  sensation'  —  hateful  wretch! 
— '  if  your  ladyship  will  let  us  know  how  many  presenta- 
tion copies — '  Goodness! — not  ofie !  Oh  —  well!  — 
Madeleine,  perhaps — and,  of  course,  Mr.  Darrell." 

390 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

She  opened  a  little  despatch-box  in  which  she  kept 
her  letters,  and  slipped  the  book  in. 

"I  won't  show  it  to  William  to-night — not — not  till 
next  week."  The  book  was  to  be  out  on  the  20th,  a 
week  ahead — three  months  from  the  day  when  she  had 
given  the  MS.  into  Darrell's  hands.  She  had  been 
spared  all  the  trouble  of  correcting  proofs,  which  had 
been  done  for  her  by  the  publisher's  reader,  on  the  plea 
of  her  illness.  She  had  received  and  destroyed  various 
letters  from  him — almost  without  reading  them — dur- 
ing a  short  absence  of  William's  in  the  north. 

Suddenly  a  start  of  terror  ran  through  her.  "No, 
no!"  she  said,  wrestling  with  herself — "he'll  scold  me, 
perhaps — at  first;  of  course  I  know  he'll  do  that.  And 
then,  I'll  make  him  laugh!  He  can't — he  can't  help 
laughing.  I  know  it  '11  amuse  him.  He'll  see  how  I 
meant  it,  too.     And  nobody  need  ever  find  out." 

She  heard  his  step  outside,  hastily  locked  her  de- 
spatch-box, threw  a  shawl  over  it,  and  lay  back  languid- 
ly on  her  pillows,  awaiting  him. 


XVIII 

THE    following   morning,  early,  a  note  was  brought 
to  Kitty  from  Madame  d'Estrees: 

"  Darling  Kitty, — Will  you  join  us  to-night  in  an  expedition  ? 
You  know  that  Princess  Margherita  is  staying  on  the  Grand 
Canal  ? — in  one  of  the  Mocenigo  palaces.  There  is  to  be  a 
serenata  in  her  honor  to-night — not  one  of  those  vulgar  affairs 
which  the  hotels  get  up,  but  really  good  music  and  fine  voices — 
money  to  be  given  to  some  hospital  or  other.  Do  come  with  us. 
I  suppose  you  have  your  own  gondola,  as  we  have.  The  gon- 
dolas who  wish  to  follow  meet  at  the  Piazzetta,  weather  per- 
mitting, eight  o'clock.  I  know,  of  course,  that  you  are  not 
going  out.  But  this  is  only  music! — and  for  a  charity.  One 
just  sits  in  one's  gondola,  and  follows  the  music  up  the  canal. 
Send  word  by  bearer.  Your  fond  mother, 

"Marguerite  d'Estrees." 

Kitty  tossed  the  note  over  to  Ashe.  "Aren't you 
dining  out  somewhere  to-night?" 

Her  voice  was  listless.  And  as  Ashe  lifted  his  head 
from  the  cabinet  papers  which  had  just  reached  him  by 
special  messenger,  his  attention  was  disagreeably  recalled 
from  high  matters  of  state  to  the  very  evident  delicacy 
of  his  wife.     He  replied  that  he  had  promised  to  dine 

with  Prince  S at  Danieli's,  in  order  to  talk  Italian 

politics.  "But  I  can  throw  it  over  in  a  moment,  if  you 
want  me.  I  came  to  Venice  for  yoti,  darling,"  he  said,  as 
he  rose  and  joined  her  on  the  balcony  which  commanded 
aiine  stretch  of  the  canal. 

392 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"No,  no!  Go  and  dine  with  your  prince.  I'll  go 
with  maman — Margaret  and  I.  At  least,  Margaret 
must,  of  course,  please  herself!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  then  added,  "Ma- 
man's  probably  in  the  pink  of  society  here.  Venice 
doesn't  take  its  cue  from  people  like  Aunt  Lina!" 

Ashe  smiled  uncomfortably.  He  was  in  truth  by  this 
time  infinitely  better  acquainted  with  the  incidents  of 
Madame  d'Estrdes's  past  career  than  Kitty  was.  He 
had  no  mind  whatever  that  Kitty  should  become  less 
ignorant,  but  his  knowledge  sometimes  made  conversa- 
tion difficult. 

Kitty  was  perfectly  aware  of  his  embarrassment. 

"You  never  tell  me — "  she  said,  abruptly.  "Did  she 
really  do  such  dreadful  things?" 

"My  dear  Kitty! — why  talk  about  it?" 

Kitty  flushed,  then  threw  a  flower  into  the  water  below 
with  a  defiant  gesture. 

"What  does  it  matter?  It's  all  so  long  ago.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  what  I  did  ten  years  ago — nothing!" 

"A  convenient  doctrine!"  laughed  Ashe.  "  But  it  cuts 
both  ways.  You  get  neither  the  good  of  your  good  nor 
the  bad  of  your  bad." 

"I  have  no  good,"  said  Kitty,  bitterly. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  miladi?"  said  Ashe, 
half  scolding,  half  tender.  "You  growl  over  my  re- 
marks as  though  you  were  your  own  small  dog  with  a 
bone.     Come  here  and  let  me  tell  you  the  news." 

And  drawing  the  sofa  up  to  the  open  window  which 
commanded  the  marvellous  waterway  outside,  with  its 
rows  of  palaces  on  either  hand,  he  made  her  lie  down 
while  he  read  her  extracts  from  his  letters, 
»6  393 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Margaret  French,  who  was  writmg  at  the  farther  side 
of  the  room,  glanced  at  them  furtively  from  time  to  time. 
She  saw  that  Ashe  was  trying  to  charm  away  the  languor 
of  his  companion  by  that  talk  of  his,  shrewd,  humorous, 
vehement,  well  informed,  which  made  him  so  welcome  to 
the  men  of  his  own  class  and  mode  of  life.  And  when  he 
talked  to  a  woman  as  he  was  accustomed  to  talk  to 
men,  that  woman  felt  it  a  compliment.  Under  the 
stimulus  of  it,  Kitty  woke  up,  laughed,  argued,  teased, 
with  something  of  her  natural  animation. 

Presently,  indeed,  the  voices  had  sunk  so  much  and 
the  heads  had  drawn  so  close  together  that  Margaret 
French  slipped  away,  under  the  impression  that  they 
were  discussing  matters  to  which  she  was  not  meant  to 
listen. 

She  had  hardly  closed  the  door  when  Kitty  drew 
herself  away  from  Ashe,  and  holding  his  arm  with  both 
hands  looked  strangely  into  his  eyes. 

"You're  awfully  good  to  me,  William.  But,  you 
know — you  don't  tell  me  secrets!" 

"What  do  you  mean,  darling?" 

"You  don't  tell  me  the  real  secrets — what  Lord 
Palmerston  used  to  tell  to  Lady  Palmerston!" 

"How  do  you  know  what  he  used  to  tell  her?"  said 
Ashe,  with  a  laugh.     But  his  forehead  had  reddened. 

"One  hears — and  one  guesses — from  the  letters  that 
have  been  published.  Oh,  I  understand  quite  well! 
You  can't  trust  me!" 

Ashe  turned  aside  and  began  to  gather  up  his  papers. 

"Of  course,''  said  Kitty,  a  little  hoarsely,  "I  know 
it's  my  own  fault,  because  you  used  to  tell  me  much  more. 
I  suppose  it  was  the  way  I  behaved  to  Lord  Parham?" 

394 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

She  looked  at  him  rather  tremulously.  It  was  the 
first  time  since  her  illness  began  that  she  had  referred  to 
the  incidents  at  Haggart. 

"Look  here!"  said  Ashe,  in  a  tone  of  decision;  "I 
shall  really  give  up  talking  politics  to  you  if  it  only 
reminds  you  of  disagreeable  things." 

She  took  no  notice. 

"Is  Lord  Parham  behaving  well  to  you  —  now  — 
William?" 

Ashe  colored  hotly.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  his  own 
opinion,  Lord  Parham  was  behaving  vilely.  A  measure 
of  first-rate  importance  for  which  he  was  responsible  was 
already  in  danger  of  being  practically  shelved,  simply,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  from  a  lack  of  elementary  trustworthi- 
ness in  Lord  Parham.  But  as  to  this  he  had  natvirally 
kept  his  own  counsel  with  Kitty. 

"He  is  not  the  most  agreeable  of  customers,"  he  said, 
gayly.    "  But  I  shall  get  through.    Pegging  away  does  it." 

"And  then  to  see  how  our  papers  flatter  him!"  cried 
Kitty.  "  How  little  people  know,  who  think  they  know! 
It  would  be  amusing  to  show  the  world  the  real  Lord 
Parham." 

She  looked  at  her  husband  with  an  expression  that 
struck  him  disagreeably.  He  threw  away  his  cigarette, 
and  his  face  changed. 

"  What  we  have  to  do,  my  dear  Kitty,  is  simply  to  hold 
our  tongues." 

Kitty  sat  up  in  some  excitement. 

"That  man  never  hears  the  truth!" 

Ashe  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  seemed  to  him  in- 
credible that  she  should  pursue  this  particular  topic,  after 


the  incidents  at  Haggart. 


395 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"That's  not  the  purpose  for  which  Prime  Ministers 
exist.     Anyway,  we  can't  tell  it  him." 

Undaunted,  however,  by  his  tone,  and  with  what 
seemed  to  him  extraordinary  excitability  of  manner, 
Kitty  reminded  him  of  an  incident  in  the  life  of  a  by- 
gone administration,  when  the  near  relative  of  an  Eng- 
lish statesman,  staying  at  the  time  in  the  statesman's 
house,  had  sent  a  communication  to  one  of  the  quarter- 
lies attacking  his  policy  and  belittling  his  character, 
by  means  of  information  obtained  in  the  intimacy  of  a 
country-house  party. 

"One  of  the  most  treacherous  things  ever  done!"  said 
Ashe,  indignantly.  "  Fair  fight,  if  you  like!  But  if  that 
kind  of  thing  were  to  spread,  I  for  one  should  throw  up 
politics  to-morrow." 

"Every  one  said  it  did  a  vast  deal  of  good,"  persisted 
Kitty. 

"A  precious  sort  of  good!  Yes — I  believe  Parham  in 
particular  profited  by  it — more  shame  to  him!  If  any- 
body ever  tried  to  help  me  in  that  sort  of  way — any- 
body, that  is,  for  whom  I  felt  the  smallest  responsibility 
— -I  know  what  I  should  do." 

"What?"  Kitty  fell  back  on  her  cushions,  but  her 
eye  still  held  him. 

"  Send  in  my  resignation  by  the  next  post — and  damn 
the  fellow  that  did  it!  Look  here,  Kitty!"  He  came  to 
stand  over  her — a  fine  formidable  figure,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  "Don't  you  ever  try  that  kind  of  thing — 
there's  a  darling." 

"Would  you  damn  me?" 

She  smiled  at  him — with  a  tremor  of  the  lip. 

He  caught  up  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  Blow  out  my 
396 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

own  brains,  more  like,"  he  said,  laughing.  Then  he 
turned  away.  "What  on  earth  have  we  got  into  this 
beastly  conversation  for?  Let's  get  out  of  it.  The 
Parhams  are  there — male  and  female — aren't  they? — • 
and  we've  got  to  put  up  with  them.  Well,  I'm  going  to 
the  Piazza.  Any  commissions?  Oh,  by-the-way" — he 
looked  back  at  a  letter  in  his  hands — "mother  says  Polly 
Lyster  will  probably  be  here  before  we  go — she  seems 
to  be  touring  around  with  her  father." 

"Charming  prospect!"  said  Kitty.  "Does  mother 
expect  me  to  chaperon  her?" 

Ashe  laughed  and  went.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
Kitty  sprang  from  the  sofa,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  passionate  preoccupation.  A  tremor  of  great 
fear  was  invading  her;  an  agony  of  unavailing  regret. 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  said  to  herself,  as  her  upper 
lip  twisted  and  tortured  the  lower  one. 

Presently  she  caught  up  her  purse,  went  to  her  room, 
where  she  put  on  her  walking  things  without  summon- 
ing Blanche,  and  stealing  down  the  stairs,  so  as  to  be 
unheard  by  Margaret,  she  made  her  way  to  the  back  gate 
of  the  Palazzo,  and  so  to  the  streets  leading  to  the  Piazza. 
William  had  taken  the  gondola  to  the  Piazzetta,  so  she 
felt  herself  safe. 

She  entered  the  telegraphic  office  at  the  western  end 
of  the  Piazza,  and  sent  a  telegram  to  England  that  near- 
ly emptied  her  purse  of  francs.  When  she  came  out  she 
was  as  pale  as  she  had  been  flushed  before — a  little, 
terror-stricken  figure,  passing  in  a  miserable  abstrac- 
tion through  the  intricate  backways  which  took  her 
home. 

"It  won't  be  published  for  ten  days.  There's  time, 
397 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

It's  only  a  question  of  money,"   she  said  to  herself, 
feverishly — "only  a  question  of  money!" 

All  the  rest  of  the  day,  Kitty  was  at  once  so  restless 
and  so  languid  that  to  amuse  her  was  difficult.  Ashe  was 
quite  grateful  to  his  amazing  mother-in-law  for  the  plan 
of  the  evening. 

As  night  fell,  Kitty  started  at  every  sound  in  the  old 
Palazzo.  Once  or  twice  she  went  half-way  to  the  door — 
eagerly — with  hand  out  -  stretched — as  though  she  ex- 
pected a  letter. 

"No  other  English  post  to-night,  Kitty!"  said  Ashe, 
at  last,  raising  his  head  from  the  finely  printed  PoetcB 
Minores  he  had  just  purchased  at  Ongania's.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  you're  not  thankful!" 

The  evening  arrived — clear  and  mild,  but  moonless. 
Ashe  went  o^  to  dine  with  his  prince,  in  the  ordinary 
gondola  of  commerce,  hired  at  the  Traghetto;  while 
Margaret  and  Kitty  followed  a  little  later  in  one  which 
had  already  drawn  the  attention  of  Venice,  owing  to  the 
two  handsome  gondoliers,  habited  in  black  from  head 
to  foot,  who  were  attached  to  it.  They  turned  towards 
the  Piazzetta,  where  they  were  to  meet  with  Madame 
d'Estrees'  party. 

Kitty,  in  her  deep  mourning,  sank  listlessly  into  the 
black  cushions  of  the  gondola.  Yet  almost  as  they 
started,  as  the  first  strokes  carried  them  past  the  famous 
palace  which  is  now  the  Prefecture,  the  spell  of  Venice 
began  to  work. 

City  of  rest! — as  it  seems  to  our  modern  senses — how 
is  it  possible  that  so  busy,  so  pitiless,  and  covetous  a  life 

398 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

as  history  shows  us  should  have  gone  to  the  making 
and  the  fashioning  of  Venice!  The  easy  passage  of  the 
gondola  through  the  soft,  imprisoned  wave ;  the  silence 
of  wheel  and  hoof,  of  all  that  hurries  and  clatters;  the 
tide  that  comes  and  goes,  noiseless,  indispensable,  bring- 
ing in  the  freshness  of  the  sea,  carrying  away  the  defile- 
ments of  the  land ;  the  narrow  winding  ways,  now  firm 
earth,  now  shifting  sea,  that  bind  the  city  into  one  social 
whole,  where  the  industrial  and  the  noble  alike  are  housed 
in  palaces,  equal  often  in  beauty  as  in  decay ;  the  marvel- 
lous quiet  of  the  nights,  save  when  the  northeast  wind, 
Hadria's  stormy  leader,  drives  the  furious  waves  against 
the  palace  fronts  in  the  darkness,  with  the  clamor  of 
an  attacking  host;  the  languor  of  the  hot  afternoons, 
when  life  is  a  dream  of  light  and  green  water,  when  the 
play  of  mirage  drowns  the  foundations  of  the  lidi  in  the 
lagoon,  so  that  trees  and  buildings  rise  out  of  the  sea  as 
though  some  strong  Amphion-music  were  but  that  mo- 
ment calling  them  from  the  deep ;  and  when  day  departs, 
that  magic  of  the  swiftly  falling  dusk,  and  that  white 
foam  and  flower  of  St.  Mark's  upon  the  purple  intensity 
of  the  sky! — through  each  phase  of  the  hours  and  the 
seasons,  rest  is  still  the  message  of  Venice,  rest  enriched 
with  endless  images,  impressions,  sensations,  that  cost 
no  trouble  and  breed  no  pain. 

It  was  this  spell  of  rest  that  descended  for  a  while  on 
Kitty  as  they  glided  downward  to  the  Piazzetta.  The 
terror  of  the  day  relaxed.  Her  telegram  would  be  in 
time;  or,  if  not,  she  would  throw  herself  into  William's 
arms,  and  he  must  forgi\'e  her!— because  she  was  so 
foolish  and  weak,  so  tired  and  sad.  She  slipped  her 
hand  into  Margaret's;  they  talked  in  low  voices  of  the 

399 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

child,  and  Kitty  was  all  appealing  melancholy  and 
charm. 

At  the  Piazzetta  there  was  already  a  crowd  of  gon- 
dolas, and  at  their  head  the  barca,  which  carried  the 
musicians. 

"You  are  late,  Kitty!"  cried  Madame  d'Estrees,  wav- 
ing to  them.  "Shall  we  draw  out  and  come  to  you? — 
or  will  you  just  join  on  where  you  are?" 

For  the  Vercelli  gondola  was  already  wedged  into  a 
serried  line  of  boats  in  the  wake  of  the  barca. 

"Never  mind  us,"  said  Kitty.  "We'll  tack  on  some- 
how." 

And  inwardly  she  was  delighted  to  be  thus  separated 
from  her  mother  and  the  chattering  crowd  by  which 
Madame  d'Estrees  seemed  to  be  surrounded.  Kitty 
and  Margaret  bade  their  men  fall  in,  and  they  presently 
found  themselves  on  the  Salute  side  of  the  floating  au- 
dience, their  prow  pointing  to  the  canal. 

The  barca  began  to  move,  and  the  mass  of  gondolas 
followed.  Round  them,  and  behind  them,  other  boats 
were  passing  and  repassing,  each  with  its  slim  black 
body,  its  swanlike  motion,  its  poised  oarsman,  and  its 
twinkling  light.  The  lagoon  towards  the  Guidecca  was 
alive  with  these  lights ;  and  a  magnificent  white  steamer 
adorned  with  flags  and  lanterns — the  yacht,  indeed,  of  a 
German  prince — shone  in  the  mid-channel. 

On  they  floated.  Here  were  the  hotels,  with  other 
illuminated  boats  in  front  of  their  steps,  whence  spoiled 
voices  shouted,  "Santa  Lucia,"  till  even  Venice  and  the 
Grand  Canal  became  a  vulgarity  and  a  weariness.  These 
were  the  "serenate  publiche,"  common  and  commercial 
affairs,  which  the  private  serenata  left  behind  in  con- 

400 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

tempt,  steering  past  their  flaring  lights  for  the  dark 
waters  of  romance  which  lay  beyond. 

Suddenly  Kitty's  sadness  gave  way ;  her  starved  senses 
clamored;  she  woke  to  poetry  and  pleasure.  All  round 
her,  stretching  almost  across  the  canal,  the  noiseless 
flock  of  gondolas — dark,  leaning  figures  impelling  them 
from  behind,  and  in  front  the  high  prows  and  glow-worm 
lights;  in  the  boats,  a  multitude  of  dim,  shrouded  figures, 
with  not  a  face  visible;  and  in  their  midst  the  barca, 
temple  of  light  and  music,  built  up  of  flowers,  and 
fluttering  scarves,  and  many-colored  lanterns,  a  spark- 
ling fantasy  of  color,  rose  and  gold  and  green,  shining 
on  the  bosom  of  the  night.  To  either  side,  the  long,  dark 
lines  of  thrice-historic  palaces ;  scarcely  a  poor  light  here 
and  there  at  their  water-gates;  and  now  and  then  the 
lamps  of  the  Traghetti  .  .  .  Otherwise,  darkness,  soundless 
motion,  and,  overhead,  dim  stars. 

"Margaret!    Look!" 

Kitty  caught  her  companion's  arm  in  a  mad  delight. 

Some  one  for  the  amusement  of  the  guests  of  Venice 
was  experimenting  on  the  top  of  the  campanile  of  St. 
Mark's  with  those  electric  lights  which  were  then  the 
toys  of  science,  and  are  now  the  eyes  and  tools  of  war. 
A  search-light  was  playing  on  the  basin  of  St.  Mark's 
and  on  the  mouth  of  the  canal.  Suddenly  it  caught  the 
Church  of  the  Salute — and  the  whole  vast  building,  from 
the  Queen  of  Heaven  on  its  topmost  dome  down  to  the 
water's  brim,  the  figures  of  saints  and  prophets  and 
apostles  which  crowd  its  steps  and  ledges,  the  white 
whorls,  like  huge  sea-shells,  that  make  its  buttresses, 
the  curves  and  volutes  of  its  cornices  and  doorways, 
rushed  upon  the  eye  in  a  white  and  blinding  splendor, 

401 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

making  the  very  darkness  out  of  which  the  vision  sprang 
alive  and  rich.  Not  a  Christian  church,  surely,  but  a 
palace  of  Poseidon!  The  bewildered  gazer  saw  naiads 
and  bearded  sea-gods  in  place  of  angels  and  saints,  and 
must  needs  imagine  the  champing  of  Poseidon's  horses  at 
the  marble  steps,  straining  towards  the  sea. 

The  vision  wavered,  faded,  reappeared,  and  finally 
died  upon  the  night.  Then  the  wild  beams  began  to 
play  on  the  canal,  following  the  serenata,  lighting  up 
now  the  palaces  on  either  hand,  now  some  single  gon- 
dola, revealing  every  figure  and  gesture  of  the  laughing 
English  or  Americans  who  filled  it,  in  a  hard  white  flash. 

"Oh!  listen,  Kitty!"  said  Margaret.  "Some  one  is 
going  to  sing  'Che  faro.'" 

Miss  French  was  very  musical,  and  she  turned  in  a 
trance  of  pleasure  towards  the  barca  whence  came  the 
first  bars  of  the  accornpaniment. 

She  did  not  see  meanwhile  that  Kitty  had  made  a 
hurried  movement,  and  was  now  leaning  over  the  side  of 
the  gondola,  peering  with  arrested  breath  into  the  scat- 
tered group  of  boats  on  their  left  hand.  The  search- 
light flashed  here  and  there  among  them.  A  gondola  at 
the  very  edge  of  the  serenata  contained  one  figure  beside 
the  gondolier,  a  man  in  a  large  cloak  and  slouch  hat, 
sitting  very  still  with  folded  arms.  As  Kitty  looked, 
hearing  the  beating  of  her  heart,  their  own  boat  was 
suddenly  lit  up.  The  light  passed  in  a  second,  and  while 
it  lasted  those  in  the  flash  could  see  nothing  outside  it. 
When  it  withdrew  all  was  in  darkness.  The  black  mass 
of  boats  floated  on,  soundless  again,  save  for  an  occa- 
sional plash  of  water  or  the  hoarse  cry  of  a  gondolier — ■ 
and  in  the  distance  the  wail  for  Eurydice. 

402 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Kitty  fell  back  in  her  seat.  An  excitement,  from 
which  she  shrank  in  a  kind  of  terror,  possessed  her.  Her 
thoughts  were  wholly  absorbed  by  the  gondola  and  the 
figure  she  could  no  longer  distinguish — for  which,  when- 
ever a  group  of  lamps  threw  their  reflections  on  the 
water,  she  searched  the  canal  in  vain.  If  what  she 
madly  dreamed  were  true,  had  she  herself  been  seen — 
and  recognized  ? 

The  serenata  in  honor  of  Italy's  beautiful  princess 
duly  made  its  way  to  the  Grand  Canal.  The  prin- 
cess came  to  her  balcony,  while  the  "Jewel  Song"  in 
"  Faust  "  was  being  sung  below,  and  there  was  a  demon- 
stration which  echoed  from  palace  to  palace  and  died 
away  under  the  arch  of  the  Rialto.  Then  the  gondolas 
dispersed.  That  of  Lady  Kitty  Ashe  had  some  difficulty 
in  making  its  way  home  against  a  force  of  wind  and  tide 
coming  from  the  lagoon. 

Kitty  was  apparently  asleep  when  Ashe  returned. 
He  had  sat  late  with  his  hosts — men  prominent  in  the 
Risorgimento  and  in  the  politics  of  the  new  kingdom — 
discussing  the  latest  intricacies  of  the  Roman  situation 
and  the  prospects  of  Italian  finance.  His  mind  was  all 
alert  and  vigorous,  ranging  over  great  questions  and 
delighting  in  its  own  strength.  To  come  in  contact  with 
these  able  foreigners,  not  as  the  mere  traveller  but  as  an 
important  member  of  an  English  government,  beginning 
to  be  spoken  of  by  the  world  as  one  of  the  two  or  three 
men  of  the  future — this  was  a  new  experience  and  a  most 
agreeable  one.  Doors  hitherto  closed  had  opened  before 
him;  information  no  casual  Englishman  could  have 
commanded  had  been  freely  poured  out  for  him;  last, 

403 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

but  not  least,  he  had  at  length  made  himself  talk  French 
with  some  fluency,  and  he  looked  back  on  his  perform- 
ance of  the  evening  with  a  boy's  complacency. 

For  the  rest,  Venice  was  a  mere  trial  of  his  patience! 
As  his  gondola  brought  him  home,  struggling  with  wind 
and  wave,  Ashe  had  no  eye  whatever  for  the  beauty  of 
this  Venice  in  storm.  His  mind  was  in  England,  in 
London,  wrestling  with  a  hundred  difficulties  and  possi- 
bilities. The  old  literary  and  speculative  habit  was  fast 
disappearing  in  the  stress  of  action  and  success.  His 
well-worn  Plato  or  Horace  still  lay  beside  his  bedside; 
but  when  he  woke  early,  and  lit  a  candle  carefully  shaded 
from  Kitty,  it  was  not  to  the  poets  and  philosophers  that 
he  turned ;  it  was  to  a  heap  of  official  documents  and  re- 
ports, to  the  letters  of  political  friends,  or  an  unfinished 
letter  of  his  own,  the  phrases  of  which  had  perhaps  been 
running  through  his  dreams.  The  measures  for  which  he 
was  wrestling  against  the  intrigues  of  Lord  Parham  and 
Lord  Parham's  clique  filled  all  his  mind  with  a  lively 
ardor  of  battle.  They  were  the  children — the  darlings — 
of  his  thoughts. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  entered  his  wife's  dim -lit  room 
the  eager  arguments  and  considerations  that  were  run- 
ning through  his  head  died  away.  He  stood  beside  her, 
overwhelmed  by  a  rush  of  feeling,  alive  through  all  his 
being  to  the  appeal  of  her  frail  sweetness,  the  helpless- 
ness of  her  sleep,  the  dumb  significance  of  the  thin,  blue- 
veined  hand — eloquent  at  once  of  character  and  of 
physical  weakness — which  lay  beside  her.  Her  face  was 
hidden,  but  the  beautiful  hair  with  its  childish  curls  and 
ripples  drew  him  to  her — touched  all  the  springs  of 
tenderness. 

404 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

It  was  a  loveliness  so  full,  it  seemed,  of  meaning  and 
of  promise.  Hand,  brow,  mouth — they  were  the  signs 
of  no  mere  empty  and  insipid  beauty.  There  was  not 
a  movement,  not  a  feature,  that  did  not  speak  of  in- 
telligence and  mind. 

And  yet,  were  he  to  wake  her  now  and  talk  to  her 
of  the  experience  of  his  evening,  how  little  joy  would 
either  get  out  of  it. 

Was  it  because  she  had  no  intellectual  disinterest- 
edness? Well,  what  woman  had!  But  other  women, 
even  if  they  saw  everything  in  terms  of  personality,  had 
the  power  of  pursuing  an  aim,  steadily,  persistently,  for 
the  sake  of  a  person.  He  thought  of  Lady  Palmerston 
— of  Princess  Lieven  fighting  Guizot's  battles — and 
sighed. 

By  Jove!  the  women  could  do  most  things,  if  they 
chose.  He  recalled  Kitty's  triumph  in  the  great  party 
gathered  to  welcome  Lord  Parham,  contrasting  it  with 
her  wilful  and  absurd  behavior  to  the  man  himself. 
There  was  something  bewildering  in  such  power — com- 
bined with  such  folly.  In  a  sense,  it  was  perfectly  true 
that  she  had  insulted  her  husband's  chief,  and  jeopar- 
dized her  husband's  policy,  because  she  could  not  put 
up  with  Lord  Parham's  white  eyelashes. 

Well,  let  him  make  his  account  with  it!  How  to 
love  her,  tend  her,  make  her  happy — and  yet  carry  on 
himself  the  life  of  high  office — there  was  the  problem! 
Meanwhile  he  recognized,  fully  and  humorously,  that  she 
had  married  a  political  sceptic — and  that  it  was  hard 
for  her  to  know  what  to  do  with  the  enthusiast  who  had 
taken  his  place. 

Poor,  pretty,  incalculable  darhng!  He  would  coax 
405 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

her  to  stay  abroad  part  of  the  Parhamentary  season — 
and  then,  perhaps,  lure  her  into  the  country,  with  the 
rebuilding  and  refurnishing  of  Haggart.  She  must  be 
managed  and  kept  from  harm — and  afterwards  indulged 
and  spoiled  and  feted  to  her  heart's  content. 

If  only  the  fates  would  give  them  another  child! — a 
child  brilliant  and  lovely  like  herself,  then  surely  this 
melancholy  which  overshadowed  her  would  disperse. 
That  look — that  tragic  look — she  had  given  him  on  the 
day  of  the  fete,  when  she  spoke  of  "separation"!  The 
wild  adventure  with  the  lamp  had  been  her  revenge — 
her  despair.     He  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  it. 

He  fell  asleep,  still  pondering  restlessly  over  her  fut- 
ure and  his  own.  Amid  all  his  anxieties  he  never 
stooped  to  recollect  the  man  who  had  endangered  her 
name  and  peace.  His  optimism,  his  pride,  the  sanguine 
perfunctoriness  of  much  of  his  character  were  all  shown 
in  the  omission. 

Kitty,  however,  was  not  asleep  while  Ashe  was  be- 
side her.  And  she  slept  but  little  through  the  hours 
that  followed.  Between  three  and  four  she  was  finally 
roused  by  the  sounds  of  storm  in  the  canal.  It  was  as 
though  a  fleet  of  gigantic  steamers — in  days  when  Venice 
knew  but  the  gondola — were  passing  outside,  sending  a 
mountainous  "wash"  against  the  walls  of  the  old  palace 
in  which  they  lodged.  In  this  languid  autumnal  Venice 
the  sudden  noise  and  crash  were  startling.  Kitty  sprang 
softly  out  of  bed,  flung  on  a  dressing-gown  and  fur  cloak, 
and  slipped  through  the  open  window  to  the  balcony. 

A  strange  sight!  Beneath,  livid  waves,  lashing  the 
marble  walls;  above,   a  pale   moonlight,   obscured   by 

406 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

scudding  clouds.  Not  a  sign  of  life  on  the  water  or  in 
the  dark  palaces  opposite.  Venice  looked  precisely  as  she 
might  have  looked  on  some  wild  sixteenth-century  night 
in  the  years  of  her  glorious  decay,  when  her  palaces  were 
still  building  and  her  state  tottering.  Opposite,  at  the 
Traghetto  of  the  Accademia,  there  were  lamps,  and  a  few 
lights  in  the  gondolas;  and  through  the  storm-noises 
one  could  hear  the  tossed  boats  grinding  on  their  posts. 

The  riot  of  the  air  was  not  cold ;  there  was  still  a 
recollection  of  summer  in  the  gusts  that  beat  on  Kitty's 
fair  hair  and  wrestled  with  her  cloak.  As  she  clung  to 
the  balcony  she  pictured  to  herself  the  tumbling  waves 
on  the  Lido;  the  piled  storm-clouds  parting  like  a  cur- 
tain above  a  dead  Venice;  and  behind,  the  gleaming 
eternal  Alps,  sending  their  challenge  to  the  sea — the 
forces  that  make  the  land,  to  the  forces  that  engulf  it. 

Her  wild  fancy  went  out  to  meet  the  tumult  of  blast 
and  wave.  She  felt  herself,  as  it  were,  anchored  a  mo- 
ment at  sea,  in  the  midst  of  a  war  of  elements,  physical 
and  moral. 

Yes,  yes! — it  was  Geoffrey.  Once,  under  the  skip- 
ping light,  she  had  seen  the  face  distinctly.  Paler  than 
of  old — gaunt,  unhappy,  absent.  It  was  the  face  of  one 
who  had  suffered — in  body  and  mind.  But — she  trem- 
bled through  all  her  slight  frame! — the  old  harsh  power 
was  there  unchanged. 

Had  he  seen  and  recognized  her  —  slipping  away 
afterwards  into  the  mouth  of  a  side  canal,  or  dropping 
behind  in  the  darkness?  Was  he  ashamed  to  face  her 
— or  angered  by  the  reminder  of  her  existence?  No 
doubt  it  seemed  to  him  now  a  monstrous  absurdity  that 
he  should  ever  have  said  he  loved  her!     He  despised 

407 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

her — thought  her  a  base  and  coward  soul.  Very  likely 
he  would  make  it  up  with  Mary  Lyster  now,  accept  her 
nursing  and  her  money. 

Her  lip  curled  in  scorn.  No,  that  she  didn't  believe! 
Well,  then,  what  would  be  his  future?  His  name  had 
been  but  little  in  the  newspapers  during  the  preceding 
year;  the  big  public  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him.  A 
cloud  had  hung  for  months  over  the  struggle  of  races 
and  of  faiths  now  passing  in  the  Balkans.  Obscure 
fighting  in  obscure  mountains;  massacre  here,  revolt 
there;  and  for  some  months  now  hardly  an  accredited 
voice  from  Turk  or  Christian  to  tell  the  world  what  was 
going  on. 

But  Geoffrey  had  now  emerged — and  at  a  moment 
when  Europe  was  beginning  perforce  to  take  notice  of 
what  she  had  so  far  wilfully  ignored.  A  lui  la  parole! 
No  doubt  he  was  preparing  it,  the  bloody,  exciting  story 
which  would  bring  him  before  the  foot-lights  again,  and 
make  him  once  more  the  lion  of  a  day.  More  social 
flatteries,  more  doubtful  love-affairs!  Fools  like  her- 
self would  feel  his  spell,  would  cherish  and  caress  him, 
only  to  be  stung  and  scathed  as  she  had  been.  The 
bitter  lines  of  his  "portrait"  rung  in  her  ears — blacken- 
ing and  discrowning  her  in  her  own  eyes. 

She  abhorred  him! — but  the  thought  that  he  was  in 
Venice  burned  deep  into  senses  and  imagination.  Should 
she  tell  William  she  had  seen  him?  No,  no!  She 
would  stand  by  herself,  protect  herself! 

So  she  stole  back  to  bed,  and  lay  there  wakeful, 
starting  guiltily  at  William's  every  movement.  If  he 
knew  what  had  happened! — what  she  was  thinking  of! 
Why  on  earth  should  he?     It  would  be  monstrous  to 

408 


The    Marriage    o^  William    Ashe 

harass  him  on  his  holiday — with  all  these  political  af- 
fairs on  his  mind. 

Then  suddenly — by  an  association  of  ideas — she  sat 
up  shivering,  her  hands  pressed  to  her  breast.  The  tele- 
gram— the  book!  Oh,  but  of  course  she  had  been  in 
time! — of  course!  Why,  she  had  offered  the  man  two 
hundred  pounds!  She  lay  down  laughing  at  herself — 
forcing  herself  to  try  and  sleep. 


XIX 

SIR  RICHARD  LYSTER  unfolded  his  Times  with 
a  jerk. 

"A  beastly  rheumatic  hole  I  call  this,"  he  said,  look- 
ing angrily  at  the  window  of  his  hotel  sitting-room, 
which  showed  drops  from  a  light  shower  then  passing 
across  the  lagoon.  "  And  the  dilatoriness  of  these  Italian 
posts  is,  upon  my  soul,  beyond  bearing!  This  Times  is 
three  days  old." 

Mary  Lyster  looked  up  from  the  letter  she  was  writing. 

"Why  don't  you  read  the  French  papers,  papa?  I 
saw  a  Figaro  of  yesterday  in  the  Piazza  this  morning." 

"Because  I  can't!"  was  the  indignant  reply.  "There 
wasn't  the  same  amount  of  money  squandered  on  my 
education,  my  dear,  that  there  has  been  on  yours." 

Mary  smiled  a  little,  unseen.  Her  father  had  been,  of 
course,  at  Eton.  She  had  been  educated  by  a  succession 
of  small  and  hunted  governesses,  mostly  Swiss,  whose 
remuneration  had  certainly  counted  among  the  frugali- 
ties rather  than  the  extravagances  of  the  family  budget. 

Sir  Richard  read  his  Times  for  a  while.  Mary  con- 
tinued to  write  checks  for  the  board  wages  of  the  ser- 
vants left  at  home,  and  to  give  directions  for  the  beat- 
ing of  carpets  and  cleaning  of  curtains.  It  was  dull 
work,  and  she  detested  it. 

Presently  Sir  Richard  rose,  with  a  stretch.  He  was  a 
410 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

tall  old  man,  with  a  shock  of  white  hair  and  very  black 
eyes.  A  victim  to  certain  obscure  forms  of  gout,  he  was 
in  character  neither  stupid  nor  inhuman,  but  he  suffered 
from  the  usual  drawbacks  of  his  class — too  much  money 
and  too  few  ideas.  He  came  abroad  every  year,  reluc- 
tantly. He  did  not  choose  to  be  left  behind  by  county 
neighbors  whose  wives  talked  nonsense  about  Botticelli. 
And  Mary  would  have  it.  But  Sir  Richard's  tours  were 
generally  one  prolonged  course  of  battle  between  himself 
and  all  foreign  institutions;  and  if  it  was  Mary  who 
drove  him  forth,  it  was  Mary  also  who  generally  hurried 
him  home. 

"Who  was  it  you  saw  last  night  in  that  ridiculous 
singing  affair?"  he  asked,  as  he  put  the  fire  together. 

"Kitty  Ashe — and  her  mother,"  said  Mary — after  a 
moment — still  writing. 

"Her  mother! — what,  that  disreputable  woman?" 

"They  weren't  in  the  same  gondola." 

"Ashe  will  be  a  great  fool  if  he  lets  his  wife  see  much 
of  that  woman!  By  all  acounts  Lady  Kitty  is  quite 
enough  of  a  handful  already.  By-the-way,  have  you 
found  out  where  they  are  ?" 

"  On  the  Grand  Canal.     Shall  we  call  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  I  don't  mind.  Of  course,  I  think  Ashe  is  doing  an 
immense  amount  of  harm." 

"Well,  you  can  tell  him  so,"  said  Mary. 

Sir  Richard  frowned.  His  daughter's  manners  seem- 
ed to  him  at  times  abrupt. 

"Why  do  you  see  so  little  now  of  Elizabeth  Tran- 
more?"  he  asked  her,  with  a  sharj)  look.  "You  used  to 
be  always  there.  And  I  don't  believe  you  even  write  to 
her  much  now." 

411 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Does  she  see  much  of  anybody?" 

*'  Because,  you  mean,  of  Tranmore's  condition  ?  What 
good  can  she  be  to  him  now?     He  knows  nobody." 

"She  doesn't  seem  to  ask  the  question,"  said  Mary, 
dryly. 

A  queer,  soft  look  came  over  Sir  Richard's  old  face. 

"  No,  the  women  don't,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,  and 
fell  into  a  little  reverie.  He  emerged  from  it  with  the 
remark — accompanied  by  a  smile,  a  little  sly  but  not 
unkind : 

"I  always  used  to  hope,  Polly,  that  you  and  Ashe 
would  have  made  it  up!" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why,"  said  Mary,  fastening  up 
her  envelopes.  As  she  did  so  it  crossed  her  father's 
mind  that  she  was  still  very  good-looking.  Her  dress  of 
dark-blue  cloth,  the  plain  fashion  of  her  brown  hair,  her 
oval  face  and  well-marked  features,  her  plump  and 
pretty  hands,  were  all  pleasant  to  look  upon.  She  had 
rather  a  hard  way  with  her,  though,  at  times.  The  ser- 
vants were  always  giving  warning.  And,  personally,  he 
was  much  fonder  of  his  younger  daughter,  whom  Mary 
considered  foolish  and  improvident.  But  he  was  well 
aware  that  Mary  made  his  life  easy. 

"Well,  you  were  always  on  excellent  terms,"  he  said, 
in  answer  to  her  last  remark.  "I  remember  his  saying 
to  me  once  that  you  were  very  good  company.  The 
Bishop,  too,  used  to  notice  how  he  liked  to  talk  to 
you." 

When  Mary  and  her  father  were  together,  "the  Bish- 
op" was  Sir  Richard's  property.  He  only  fell  to  Mary's 
share  in  the  old  man's  absence. 

Mary  colored  slightly. 

412 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Oh  yes,  we  got  on,"  she  said,  counting  her  letters 
the  while  with  a  quick  hand. 

"  Well,  I  hope  that  young  woman  whom  he  did  marry 
is  now  behaving  herself.  It  was  that  fellow  ClifEe  with 
whom  the  scandal  was  last  year,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk,"  said  Mary. 

"A  rum  fellow,  that  Cliffe!  A  man  at  the  club  told 
me  last  week  it  is  believed  he  has  been  fighting  for  these 
Bosnian  rebels  for  months.  Shocking  bad  form  I  call  it. 
If  the  Turks  catch  him,  they'll  string  him  up.  And 
quite  right,  too.  What's  he  got  to  do  with  other  peo- 
ple's quarrels?" 

"  If  the  Turks  will  be  such  brutes — " 

"Nonsense,  my  dear!  Don't  you  believe  any  of  this 
radical  stuff.  The  Turks  are  awfully  fine  fellows — fight 
like  bull-dogs.  And  as  for  the  'atrocities,'  they  make 
them  up  in  London.  Oh,  of  course,  what  Cliffe  wants  is 
notoriety — we  all  know  that.  Well,  I'm  going  out  to 
see  if  I  can  find  another  English  paper.    Beastly  climate!" 

But  as  Sir  Richard  turned  again  to  the  window,  he 
was  met  by  a  burst  of  sunshine,  which  hit  him  gayly  in 
the  face  like  a  child's  impertinence.  He  grumbled  some- 
thing unintelligible  as  Mary  put  him  into  his  Invernes's 
cape,  took  hat  and  stick,  and  departed, 

Mary  sat  still  beside  the  writing-table,  her  hands 
crossed  on  her  lap,  her  eyes  absently  bent  upon  them. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  serenata.  She  had  followed 
it  with  an  acquaintance  from  the  hotel,  and  she  had  seen 
not  only  Kitty  and  Madame  d'Estrees,  but  also  —  the 
solitary  man  in  the  heavy  cloak.  She  knew  quite  well 
that  Cliffe  was  in  Venice;  though,  true  to  her  secretive 
temper,  she  had  not  mentioned  the  fact  to  her  father. 

413 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Of  course  he  was  in  Venice  on  Kitty's  account.  It 
would  be  too  absurd  to  suppose  that  he  was  here  by- 
mere  coincidence.  Mary  believed  that  nothing  but  the 
intervention  of  Cliffe's  mighty  kinsman  from  the  north 
had  saved  the  situation  the  year  before.  Kitty  would 
certainly  have  betrayed  her  husband  but  for  the  force 
majeure  arrayed  against  her.  And  now  the  magnate 
who  had  played  Providence  slumbered  in  the  family 
vault.  He  had  passed  away  in  the  spring,  full  of  years 
and  honors,  leaving  Cliffe  some  money.  The  path  was 
clear.  As  for  the  escapade  in  the  Balkans,  Geoffrey  was, 
of  course,  tired  of  it.  A  sensational  book,  hurried  out 
to  meet  the  public  appetite  for  horrors — and  the  pur- 
suance of  his  intrigue  with  Lady  Kitty  Ashe — Mary  was 
calmly  certain  that  these  were  now  his  objects.  He 
was,  no  doubt,  writing  his  book  and  meeting  Kitty  where 
he  could.  Ashe  would  soon  have  to  go  home.  And 
then!     As  if  that  girl  Margaret  French  could  stop  it! 

Well,  William  had  only  got  his  deserts!  But  as  her 
thoughts  passed  from  Kitty  or  Cliffe  to  William  Ashe, 
their  quality  changed.  Hatred  and  bitterness,  scorn  or 
wounded  vanity,  passed  into  something  gentler.  She 
fell  into  recollections  of  Ashe  as  he  had  appeared  on  that 
bygone  afternoon  in  May  when  he  came  back  trium- 
phant from  his  election,  with  the  world  before  him.  If 
he  had  never  seen  Kitty  Bristol! — 

"I  should  have  made  him  a  good  wife,"  she  said  to 
herself,    "/should  have  known  how  to  be  proud  of  him." 

And  there  emerged  also  the  tragic  consciousness  that 
if  the  fates  had  given  him  to  her  she  might  have  been 
another  woman — taught  by  happiness,  by  love,  by 
motherhood. 

414 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

It  was  that  little,  heartless  creature  who  had  snatched 
them  both  from  her — William  and  Geoffrey  Cliffe — the 
higher  and  the  lower — the  man  who  might  have  en- 
nobled her — and  the  man,  half  charlatan,  half  genius, 
whom  she  might  have  served  and  raised,  by  her  fortune 
and  her  abilities.  Her  life  might  have  been  so  full,  so 
interesting!  And  it  was  Kitty  that  had  made  it  flat, 
and  cold,  and  futureless. 

Poor  William!  Had  he  really  liked  her,  in  those  boy- 
and-girl  days?  She  dreamed  over  their  old  cousinly 
relations — over  the  presents  he  had  sometimes  given  her. 

Then  a  thought,  like  a  burning  arrow,  pierced  her. 
Her  hands  locked,  straining  one  against  the  other.  If 
this  intrigue  were  indeed  renewed — if  Geoffrey  suc- 
ceeded in  tempting  Kitty  from  her  husband — why  then 
— then — 

She  shivered  before  the  images  that  were  passing 
through  her  mind,  and,  rising,  she  put  away  her  letters 
and  rang  for  the  waiter,  to  order  dinner. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  said  Kitty,  languidly,  putting 
down  the  French  novel  she  was  reading. 

"Mr.  Ashe  suggested  San  Lazzaro."  Margaret  looked 
up  from  her  writing  as  Kitty  moved  towards  her.  "The 
rain  seems  to  have  all  cleared  off." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  it  doesn't  matter  where,"  said  Kitty, 
and  was  turning  away;  but  Margaret  caught  her  hand 
and  caressed  it. 

"Naughty  Kitty!  why  this  sea  air  can't  put  some 
more  color  into  your  cheeks  I  don't  understand." 

"I'm  not  pale!"  cried  Kitty,  pouting.  "Margaret, 
you  do  croak  about  me  so!     If  you  say  any  more  I'll  go 

415 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

and  rouge  till  you'll  be  ashapied  to  go  out  with  me — 
there!     Where's  William?" 

William  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke,  the  Gazetta 
di  Venezia  in  one  hand  and  a  telegram  in  the  other. 

"Something  for  you,  darling,"  he  said,  holding  it  out 
to  Kitty.     "Shall  I  open  it?" 

"Oh  no!"  said  Kitty,  hastily.  "Give  it  me.  It's 
from  my  Paris  woman." 

"Ah — ha!"  laughed  Ashe.  "Some  extravagance  you 
want  to  keep  to  yourself,  I'll  be  bound.  I've  a  good 
mind  to  see!" 

And  he  teasingly  held  it  up  above  her  head.  But  she 
gave  a  little  jump,  caught  it,  and  ran  off  with  it  to  her 
room. 

"  Much  regret  impossible  stop  publication.  Fifty  copies  dis- 
tributed already.     Writing." 

She  dropped  speechless  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  the 
crumpled  telegram  in  her  hand.     The  minutes  passed. 

"When  will  you  be  ready?"  said  Ashe,  tapping  at  the 
door. 

"Is  the  gondola  there?" 

"Waiting  at  the  steps." 

"Five  minutes!"  Ashe  departed.  She  rose,  tore  the 
telegram  into  little  bits,  and  began  with  deliberation  to 
put  on  her  mantle  and  hat. 

"You've  got  to  go  through  with  it,"  she  said  to  the 
white  face  in  the  glass,  and  she  straightened  her  small 
shoulders  defiantly. 

They  were  bound  for  the  Armenian  convent.  It  was 
a  misty  day,  with  shafts  of  light  on  the  lagoon.     The 

416 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

storm  had  passed,  but  the  water  was  still  rough,  and  the 
clouds  seemed  to  be  withdrawing  their  forces  only  to 
marshal  them  again  with  the  darkness.  A  day  of  sudden 
bursts  of  watery  light,  of  bands  of  purple  distance  struck 
into  enchanting  beauty  by  the  red  or  orange  of  a  sail, 
of  a  wild  salt  breath  in  air  that  seemed  to  be  still  suffused 
with  spray.  The  Alps  were  hidden ;  but  what  sun  there 
was  played  faintly  on  the  Euganean  hills. 

"I  say,  Margaret,  at  last  she  does  us  some  credit!" 
said  Ashe,  pointing  to  his  wife. 

Margaret  started.  Was  it  rouge  ? — or  was  it  the  strong 
air?  Kitty's  languor  had  entirely  disappeared;  she  was 
more  cheerful  and  more  talkative  than  she  had  been  at 
any  time  since  their  arrival.  She  chattered  about  the 
current  scandals  of  Venice  —  the  mysterious  contessa 
who  lived  in  the  palace  opposite  their  own,  and  only 
went  out,  in  deep  mourning,  at  night,  because  she  had 
been  the  love  of  a  Russian  grand-duke,  and  the  grand- 
duke  was  dead;  of  the  Carlist  pretender  and  his  wife, 
who  had  been  very  popular  in  Venice  until  they  took  it 
into  their  heads  to  require  royal  honors,  and  Venice, 
taking  time  to  think,  had  lazily  decided  the  game  was 
not  worth  the  candle — so  now  the  sulky  pair  went  about 
alone  in  a  fine  gondola,  turning  glassy  eyes  on  their 
former  acquaintance;  of  the  needy  marchese  who  had 
sold  a  Titian  to  the  Louvre,  and  had  then  found  himself 
boycotted  by  all  his  kinsfolk  in  Venice  who  were  not 
needy  and  had  no  Titians  to  sell — all  these  tales  Kitty 
reeled  out  at  length  till  the  handsome  gondoliers  mar- 
velled at  the  little  lady's  vivacity  and  the  queer  bright- 
ness of  her  eyes. 

"Gracious,  Kitty,  where  do  you  get  all  these  stories 
417 


The   Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

from?"  cried  Ashe,  when  the  chatter  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

He  looked  at  her  with  dehght,  rejoicing  in  her  gayety, 
the  sHght  touches  of  white  which  to-day  for  the  first 
time  reheved  the  sombreness  of  her  dress,  the  return  of 
her  color.  And  Margaret  wondered  again  how  much  of 
it  was  rouge. 

At  the  Armenian  convent  a  handsome  young  monk 
took  charge  of  them.  As  George  Sand  and  Lamennais 
had  done  before  them,  they  looked  at  the  printing-press, 
the  garden,  the  cloister,  the  church;  they  marvelled 
lazily  at  the  cleanliness  and  brightness  of  the  place ;  and 
finally  they  climbed  to  the  library  and  museum,  and 
the  room  close  by  where  Byron  played  at  grammar- 
making.  In  this  room  Ashe  fell  suddenly  into  a  political 
talk  with  the  young  monk,  who  was  an  ardent  and  pa- 
triotic son  of  the  most  unfortunate  of  nations,  and  they 
passed  out  and  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  Margaret 
French,  not  noticing  that  Kitty  had  lingered  behind. 

Kitty  stood  idly  by  the  window  of  Byron's  room, 
thinking  restlessly  of  verses  that  were  not  Byron's, 
though  there  was  in  them,  clothed  in  forms  of  the  new 
age,  the  spirit  of  Byronic  passion,  and  more  than  a 
touch  of  Byronic  affectation — thinking  also  of  the  morn- 
ing's telegram.  Supposing  Darrell's  prophecy,  which 
had  seemed  to  her  so  absurd,  came  true,  that  the  book 
did  William  harm,  not  good — that  he  ceased  to  love  her 
— that  he  cast  her  off.'*  .  .  . 

...  A  plash  of  water  outside,  and  a  voice  giving 
directions.  From  the  lagoon  towards  Malamocco  a 
gondola  approached.  A  gentleman  and  lady  were  seat- 
ed in  it.     The  lady — a  very  handsome  Italian,  with  a 

418 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

loud  laugh  and  brilliant  eyes — carried  a  scarlet  parasol. 
Kitty  gave  a  stifled  cry  as  she  drew  back.  She  fled  out 
of  the  room  and  overtook  the  other  two. 

"May  we  go  back  into  the  garden.a  little?"  she  said, 
hurriedly,  to  the  monk  who  was  talking  to  William.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  the  view  towards  Venice." 

William  held  up  a  watch,  to  show  that  there  was  but 
just  time  to  get  back  to  the  Piazza  for  lunch.  Kitty 
persisted,  and  the  monk,  understanding  what  the  im- 
petuous young  lady  wished,  good-naturedly  turned  to 
obey  her. 

"We  must  be  very  quick!"  said  Kitty.  "Take  us 
please,  to  the  edge,  beyond  the  trees." 

And  she  herself  hurried  through  the  garden  to  its 
farther  side,  where  it  was  bounded  by  the  lagoon. 

The  others  followed  her,  rather  puzzled  by  her  ca- 
price. 

"Not  much  to  be  seen,  darling!"  said  Ashe,  as  they 
reached  the  water — "and  I  think  this  good  man  wants 
to  get  rid  of  us!" 

And,  indeed,  the  monk  was  looking  backward  across 
the  intervening  trees  at  a  party  which  had  just  entered 
the  garden. 

"Ah,  they  have  found  another  brother!"  he  said, 
politely,  and  he  began  to  point  out  to  Kitty  the  various 
landmarks  visible,  the  arsenal,  the  two  asylums,  San 
Pietro  di  Castello. 

The  new-comers  just  glanced  at  the  garden  apparent- 
ly, as  the  Ashes  had  done  on  arrival,  and  promptly  fol- 
lowed their  guide  back  into  the  convent. 

Kitty  asked  a  few  m.ore  questions,  then  led  the  way 
in  a  hasty  return  to  the  garden  door,  the  entrance-hall, 

419 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

and  the  steps  where  their  gondola  was  waiting.  Nothing 
was  to  be  seen  of  the  second  party.  They  had  passed  on 
into  the  cloisters. 

Animation,  oddity,  inconsequence,  all  these  things 
Margaret  observed  in  Kitty  during  luncheon  in  a  restau- 
rant of  the  Merceria,  and  various  incidents  connected 
with  it;  animation  above  all.  The  Ashes  fell  in  with 
acquaintance  —  a  fashionable  and  harassed  mother, 
on  the  fringe  of  the  Archangels,  accompanied  by  two 
daughters,  one  pretty  and  one  plain,  and  sore  pressed 
by  their  demands,  real  or  supposed.  The  parents  were 
not  rich,  but  the  girls  had  to  be  dressed,  taken  abroad, 
produced  at  country-houses,  at  Ascot,  and  the  opera, 
like  all  other  girls.  The  eldest  girl,  a  considerable 
beauty,  was  an  accomplished  egotist  at  nineteen,  and 
regarded  her  mother  as  a  rather  inefficient  dame  de 
compagnie.  Kitty  understood  this  young  lady  per- 
fectly, and  after  luncheon,  over  her  cigarette,  her  little, 
sharp,  probing  questions  gave  the  beauty  twenty 
minutes'  annoyance.  Then  appeared  a  young  man,  ill- 
dressed,  red-haired,  and  shy.  Carelessly  as  he  greeted 
the  mother  and  daughters,  his  entrance,  however,  trans- 
formed them.  The  mother  forgot  fatigue;  the  beauty 
ceased  to  yawn;  the  younger  girl,  who  had  been  making 
surreptitious  notes  of  Kitty's  costume  in  the  last  leaf  of 
her  guide-book,  developed  a  charming  gush.  He  was 
the  owner  of  the  Magellan  estates  and  the  historic  Ma- 
gellan Castle;  a  professed  hater  of  "absurd  woman- 
kind," and,  in  general,  a  hunted  and  self-conscious  per- 
son. Kitty  gave  him  one  finger,  looked  him  up  and 
down,  asked  him  whether  he  was  yet  engaged,  and  when 

420 


Tiie    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

he  laughed  an  embarrassed  "No,"  told  him  that  he 
would  certainly  die  in  the  arms  of  the  Magellan  house- 
keeper. 

This  got  a  smile  out  of  him.  He  sat  down  beside  her, 
and  the  two  laughed  and  talked  with  a  freedom  which 
presently  drew  the  attention  of  the  neighboring  tables, 
and  made  Ashe  uncomfortable.  He  rose,  paid  the  bill, 
and  succeeded  in  carrying  the  whole  party  off  to  the 
Piazza  in  search  of  coffee.  But  here  again  Kitty's 
extravagances,  the  provocation  of  her  light  loveliness, 
as  she  sat  toying  with  a  fresh  cigarette  and  "chaffing" 
Lord  Magellan,  drew  a  disagreeable  amount  of  notice 
from  the  Italians  passing  by. 

"Mother,  let's  go!"  said  the  angry  beauty,  imperious- 
ly, in  her  mother's  ear.  "  I  don't  like  to  be  seen  with 
Lady  Kitty!     She's  impossible!" 

And  with  cold  farewells  the  three  ladies  departed. 
Then  Kitty  sprang  up  and  threw  away  her  cigarette. 

"How  those  girls  bully  their  mother!"  she  said,  with 
scorn.  "However,  it  serves  her  right.  I'm  sure  she 
bullied  hers.  Well,  now  we  must  go  and  do  something. 
Ta-ta!" 

Lord  Magellan,  to  whom  she  offered  another  casual 
finger,  wanted  to  know  why  he  was  dismissed.  If  they 
were  going  sight-seeing,  might  he  not  come  with  them?" 

"Oh  no!"  said  Kitty,  calmly.  "  Sight  -  seeing  with 
people  you  don't  really  know  is  too  trying  to  the  temper. 
Even  with  one's  best  friend  it's  risky." 

"Where  are  you?     May  I  call?"  said  the  young  man. 

"  We're  always  out,"  was  Kitty's  careless  reply. 
"But—" 

She  considered — 

421 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  Palazzo  Vercelli?" 

"That  magnificent  place  on  the  Grand  Canal?  Very- 
much." 

"Meet  me  there  to-morrow  afternoon,"  said  Kitty. 
"Four  o'clock." 

"Delighted!"  said  Lord  Magellan,  making  a  note  on 
his  shirt-cuff.     "And  who  lives  there?" 

"My  mother,"  said  Kitty,  abruptly,  and  walked  away. 

Ashe  followed  her  in  discomfort.  This  young  man 
was  the  son  of  a  certain  Lady  Magellan,  an  intimate 
friend  of  Lady  Tranmore's — one  of  the  noblest  women 
of  her  generation,  pure,  high-minded,  spiritual,  to  whom 
neither  an  ugly  word  nor  thought  was  possible.  It 
annoyed  him  that  either  he  or  Kitty  should  be  intro- 
ducing her  son  to  Madame  d'Estrees. 

It  was  really  tiresome  of  Kitty!  Rich  young  men 
with  characters  yet  indeterminate  were  not  to  be  lightly 
brought  in  contact  with  Madame  d'Estrees.  Kitty 
could  not  be  ignorant  of  it — poor  child!  It  had  been 
one  of  her  reckless  strokes,  and  Ashe  v/as  conscious  of 
a  sharp  annoyance. 

However,  he  said  nothing.  He  followed  his  com- 
panions from  church  to  church,  till  pictures  became  an 
abomination  to  him.  Then  he  pleaded  letters,  and 
went  to  the  club. 

"Will  you  call  on  maman  to-morrow?"  said  Kitty,  as 
he  turned  away,  looking  at  him  a  little  askance. 

She  knew  that  he  had  disapproved  of  her  invitation 
to  Lord  Magellan.  Why  had  she  given  it?  She  didn't 
know.  There  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  revived  mischief 
and  fever  in  the  blood,  driving  her  to  these  foolish  and 
ill-considered  things. 

422 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

,  Ashe  met  her  question  with  a  shake  of  the  head  and 
the  remark,  m  a  decided  tone,  that  he  should  be  too 
busy. 

Privately  he  thought  it  a  piece  of  impertinence  that 
Madame  d'Estrees  should  expect  either  Kitt}^  or  him- 
self to  appear  in  her  drawing-room  at  all.  That  this 
implied  a  complete  transformation  of  his  earlier  atti- 
tude he  was  well  aware;  he  accepted  it  with  a  curious 
philosophy.  When  he  and  Kitty  first  met  he  had 
never  troubled  his  head  about  such  things.  If  a  woman 
amused  or  interested  him  in  society,  so  long  as  his  taste 
was  satisfied  she  might  have  as  much  or  as  little  char- 
acter as  she  pleased.  It  stirred  his  mocking  sense  of 
English  hypocrisy  that  the  point  should  be  even  raised. 
But  now — how  can  any  individual,  he  asked  himself, 
with  political  work  to  do,  affect  to  despise  the  opinions 
and  prejudices  of  society  ?  A  politician  with  great  re- 
forms to  put  through  will  make  no  friction  round  him 
that  he  can  avoid — unless  he  is  a  fool.  It  weighed 
sorely,  therefore,  on  his  present  mind  that  Madame 
d'Estrees  was  in  Venice — that  she  was  a  person  of 
blemished  repute — that  he  must  be  and  was  ashamed  of 
her.  It  would  have  been  altogether  out  of  consonance 
with  his  character  to  put  any  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
Kitty's  seeing  her  mother.  But  he  chafed  as  he  had 
never  yet  chafed  under  the  humiliation  of  his  relation- 
ship to  the  notorious  Margaret  Fitzgerald  of  the  forties, 
who  had  been  old  Blackwater's  chere  amie  before  she 
married  him,  and,  as  Lady  Blackwater,  had  sacrificed 
her  innocent  and  defenceless  step-daughter  to  one  of 
her  own  lovers,  in  order  to  secure  for  him  the  step- 
daughter's fortune — black  and  dastardly  deed! 

423 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Was  it  all  part  of  the  general  growth  and  concen- 
tration that  any  shrewd  observer  might  have  read  in 
William  Ashe? — the  pressure — enormous,  unseen — of 
the  traditional  English  ideals,  English  standards,  as- 
serting itself  at  last  in  a  brilliant  and  paradoxical  nat- 
ure? It  had  been  so — conspicuously — in  the  case  of 
one  of  his  political  predecessors.  Lord  Melbourne  had 
begun  his  career  as  a  person  of  idle  habits  and  impru- 
dent adventures,  much  given  to  coarse  conversation,  and 
unable  to  say  the  simplest  thing  without  an  oath.  He 
ended  it  as  the  man  of  scrupulous  dignity,  tact,  and 
delicacy,  who  moulded  the  innocent  youth  of  a  girl- 
queen,  to  his  own  lasting  honor  and  England's  grati- 
tude. In  ways  less  striking,  the  same  influence  of  vast 
responsibilities  was  perhaps  acting  upon  William  Ashe. 
It  had  already  made  him  a  sterner,  tougher,  and — no 
doubt — a  greater  man. 

The  defection  of  William  only  left  Kitty,  it  seemed, 
still  more  greedy  of  things  to  see  and  do.  Innumerable 
sacristans  opened  all  possible  doors  and  unveiled  all 
possible  pictures.  Bellini  succeeded  Tintoret,  and  Car- 
paccio  Bellini.  The  two  sable  gondoliers  wore  them- 
selves out  in  Kitty's  service,  and  Margaret's  kind,  round 
face  grew  more  and  more  puzzled  and  distressed.  And 
whence  this  strange  impression  that  the  whole  experi- 
ence was  a  flight  on  Kitty's  part? — or,  rather,  that 
throughout  it  she  was  always  eagerly  expecting,  or 
eagerly  escaping  from  some  unknown,  unseen  pursuer? 
A  glance  behind  her — a  start— a  sudden  shivering  gest- 
ure in  the  shadows  of  dark  churches — these  things  sug- 
gested it,  till  Margaret  herself  was  caught  by  the  same 

424 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

suppressed  excitement  that  seemed  to  be  alive  in  Kitty. 
Did  it  all  point  merely  to  some  mental  state — to  the 
nervous  effects  of  her  illness  and  her  loss? 

When  they  reached  home  about  five  o'clock,  Kitty 
was  naturally  tired  out.  Margaret  put  her  on  the  sofa, 
gave  her  tea,  and  tended  her,  hoping  that  she  might  drop 
asleep  before  dinner.  But  just  as  tea  was  over,  and 
Kitty  was  lying  curled  up,  silent  and  white,  with  that 
brooding  look  which  kept  Margaret's  anxiety  about  her 
constantly  alive,  there  was  a  sudden  sound  of  voices  in 
the  anteroom  outside. 

"Margaret!"  cried  Kitty,  starting  up  in  dismay — 
"say  I'm  not  at  home." 

Too  late!  Their  smiling  Italian  housemaid  threw  the 
door  open,  with  the  air  of  one  bringing  good-fortune. 
And  behind  her  appeared  a  tall  lady,  and  an  old  gentle- 
man hat  in  hand. 

"May  we  come  in,  Kitty?"  said  Mary  L^^ster,  ad- 
vancing.    "Cousin  Elizabeth  told  us  you  were  here." 

Kitty  had  sprung  up.  The  disorder  of  her  fair  hair, 
her  white  cheeks,  and  the  ghostly  thinness  of  her  small, 
black-robed  form  drew  the  curious  eyes  of  Sir  Richard. 
And  the  oddness  of  her  manner  as  she  greeted  them 
only  confirmed  the  old  man's  prejudice  against  her. 

However,  greeted  they  were,  in  some  sort  of  fashion; 
and  Miss  French  gave  them  tea.  She  kept  Sir  Richard 
entertained,  while  Kitty  and  Mary  conversed.  They 
talked  perfunctorily  of  ordinary  topics — Venice,  its 
sights,  its  hotels,  and  the  people  staying  in  them — of 
Lady  Tranmore  and  various  Ashe  relations.  Mean- 
while the  inmost  thought  of  each  was  busy  with  the 
other. 

s8  425 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Kitty  studied  the  lines  of  Mary's  face  and  the  fashion 
of  her  dress. 

"She  looks  much  older.  And  she's  not  enjoying  her 
life  a  bit.  That's  my  fault.  I  spoiled  all  her  chances 
with  Geofifrey — and  she  knows  it.  She  hates  me.  Quite 
right,  too." 

"Oh,  you  mean  that  nonsensical  thing  last  night?" 
Sir  Richard  was  saying  to  Margaret  French.  "Oh  no, 
I  didn't  go.  But  Mary,  of  course,  thought  she  must  go. 
Somebody  invited  her." 

Kitty  started. 

"You  were  at  the  serenata?"  she  said  to  Mary. 

"Yes,  I  went  with  a  party  from  the  hotel." 

Kitty  looked  at  her.  A  sudden  flush  had  touched 
her  pale  cheeks,  and  she  could  not  conceal  the  trembling 
of  her  hands. 

"That  was  marvellous,  that  light  on  the  Salute, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Wonderful! — and  on  the  water,  too.  I  saw  two  or 
three  people  I  knew — just  caught  their  faces  for  a 
second." 

"Did  you?"  said  Kitty.  And  thoughts  ran  fast 
through  her  head.  "Did  she  see  Geoffrey? — and  does 
she  mean  me  to  understand  that  she  did  ?  How  she 
detests  me!  If  she  did  see  him,  of  course  she  supposes 
that  I  know  all  about  it,  and  that  he's  here  for  me. 
Why  don't  I  ask  her,  straight  out,  whether  she  saw  him, 
and  make  her  understand  that  I  don't  care  twopence  ? — 
that  she's  welcome  to  him — as  far  as  I'm  concerned?" 

But  some  hidden  feeling  tied  her  tongue.  Mary 
continued  to  talk  about  the  serenata,  and  Kitty  was 
presently   conscious   that  her  every  word   and   gesture 

426 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

in  reply  was  closely  watched.  "Yes,  yes,  she  saw 
him.  Perhaps  she'll  tell  William — or  write  home  to 
mother?" 

And  in  her  excitement  she  began  to  chatter  fast  and 
loudly,  mostly  to  Sir  Richard — repeating  some  of  the 
Venice  tales  she  had  told  in  the  gondola — with  much 
inconsequence  and  extravagance.  The  old  man  listened, 
his  hands  on  his  stick,  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  the  ex- 
pression on  his  strong  mouth  hostile  or  sarcastic.  It 
was  a  relief  to  everybody  when  Ashe's  step  was  heard 
stumbling  up  the  dark  stairs,  and  the  door  opened  on 
his  friendly  and  courteous  presence. 

"Why,  Polly!  —  and  Cousin  Richard!  I  wondered 
where  you  had  hidden  yourselves." 

Mary's  bright,  involuntary  smile  transformed  her. 
Ashe  sat  down  beside  her,  and  they  were  soon  deep  in 
all  sorts  of  gossip — relations,  acquaintance,  politics,  and 
what  not.  All  Mary's  stiffness  disappeared.  She  be- 
came the  elegant,  agreeable  woman,  of  whom  dinner- 
parties were  glad.  Ashe  plunged  into  the  pleasant 
malice  of  her  talk,  which  ranged  through  the  good  and 
evil  fortunes — mostly  the  latter — of  half  his  acquaint- 
ance; discussed  the  debts,  the  love-affairs,  and  the  follies 
of  his  poHtical  colleagues  or  Parliamentary  foes;  how 
the  Foreign  Secretary  had  been  getting  on  at  Balmoral 
— how  so-and-so  had  been  ruined  at  the  Derby  and  re- 
stored to  sanity  and  solvency  by  the  Oaks — how  Lady 
Parham,  at  Hatfield,  had  been  made  to  know  her  place 
by  the  French  Ambassador — and  the  like ;  passing  there- 
by a  charming  half-hour. 

Meanwhile  Kitty,  Margaret  French,  and  Sir  Richard 
kept  up  intermittent  remarks,  pausing  at  every  other 

427 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

phrase  to  gather  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  the  table  of 
the  other  two. 

I  Kitty  was  very  weary,  and  a  dead  weight  had  fallen 
on  her  spirits.  If  Sir  Richard  had  thought  her  bad  form 
ten  minutes  before,  his  unspoken  mind  now  declared  her 
stupid.  Meanwhile  Kitty  was  saying  to  herself,  as  she 
watched  her  husband  and  Mary: 

"I  used  to  amuse  William  just  as  well — last  year!" 

When  the  door  closed  on  them,  Kitty  fell  back  on  her 
cushions  with  an  "ouf!"  of  relief.  William  came  back 
in  a  few  minutes  from  showing  the  visitors  the  back 
way  to  their  hotel,  and  stood  beside  his  wife  with  an 
anxious  face. 

"They  were  too  much  for  you,  darling.  They  stayed 
too  long." 

"How  you  and  Mary  chattered!"  said  Kitty,  with  a 
little  pout.  But  at  the  same  moment  she  slipped  an 
appealing  hand  into  his. 

Ashe  clasped  the  hand,  and  laughed. 

"I  always  told  you  she  was  an  excellent  gossip." 

Sir  Richard  and  Mary  pursued  their  way  through  the 
narrow  calles  that  led  to  the  Piazza.  Sir  Richard  was 
expatiating  on  Ashe's  folly  in  marrying  such  a  wife. 

"She  looks  like  an  actress! — and  as  to  her  conversa- 
tion, she  began  by  telling  me  outrageous  stories  and 
ended  by  not  having  a  word  to  say  about  anything. 
The  bad  blood  of  the  Bristols,  it  seems  to  me,  without 
their  brains." 

"Oh  no,  papa!  Kitty  is  very  clever.  You  haven't 
heard  her  recite.     She  was  tired  to-night." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  flatter  you,  my  dear!"  said  the 
428 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

old  man,  testily,  "but  I  thought  it  was  pathetic — the 
way  in  which  Ashe  enjoyed  your  conversation.  It  show- 
ed he  didn't  get  much  of  it  at  home." 

Mary  smiled  uncertainly.  Her  whole  nature  was  still 
aglow  from  that  contact  with  Ashe's  delightful  person- 
ality. After  months  of  depression  and  humiliation,  her 
success  with  him  had  somehow  restored  those  illusions 
on  which  cheerfulness  depends. 

How  ill  Kitty  looked — and  how  conscious!  Mary 
was  impetuously  certain  that  Kitty  had  betrayed  her 
knowledge  of  Cliffe's  presence  in  Venice;  and  equally 
certain  that  William  knew  nothing.     Poor  William! 

Well,  what  can  you  expect  of  such  a  temperament — 
such  a  race?  Mary's  thoughts  travelled  confusedly 
towards — and  through — some  big  and  dreadful  catas- 
trophe. 

And  then  ?     After  it  ? 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  once  more  in  the  Park 
Lane  drawing  -  room ;  the  familiar  Morris  papers  and 
Burne- Jones  drawings  surrounded  her;  and  she  and 
Elizabeth  Tranmore  sat,  hand  in  hand,  talking  of  Will- 
iam— a  William  once  more  free,  after  much  folly  and 
suffering,  to  reconstruct  his  life.  .  .  . 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Sir  Richard  Lyster,  moving  down 
a  dark  passage  towards  the  brightly  lit  doorway  of  their 
hotel. 

With  a  start — as  of  one  taken  red-handed — Mary 
awoke  from  her  dream. 


M^ 


XX 

ADAME  D'ESTREES  and  her  friend,  Donna 
Laura,  occupied  the  mezzanin  of  the  vast  Vercelli 
palace.  The  palace  itself  belonged  to  the  head  of  the 
Vercelli  family.  It  was  a  magnificent  erection  of  the 
late  seventeenth  century,  at  this  moment  half  furnished, 
dilapidated,  and  forsaken.  But  the  entresol  on  the  east- 
ern side  of  the  cortile  was  in  good  condition,  and  com- 
fortably fitted  up  for  the  occasional  use  of  the  Principe. 
As  he  was  wintering  in  Paris,  he  had  let  his  rooms  at 
an  ordinary  commercial  rent  to  his  kinswoman.  Don- 
na Laura.  She,  a  soured  and  melancholy  woman,  un- 
married in  a  Latin  society  which  has  small  use  or  kind- 
ness for  spinsters,  had  seized  on  Marguerite  d'Estrees — 
whose  acquaintance  she  had  made  in  a  Mont  d'Or  hotel 
— and  was  now  keeping  her  like  a  caged  canary  that 
sings  for  its  food. 

Madame  d'Estrees  was  quite  willing.  So  long  as  she 
had  a  sofa  on  which  to  sit  enthroned,  a  sufficiency  of 
new  gowns,  a  maid,  cigarettes,  breakfast  in  bed,  and  a 
supply  of  French  novels,  she  appeared  the  most  harm- 
less and  engaging  of  mortals.  Her  youth  had  been 
cruel,  disorderly,  and  vicious.  It  had  lasted  long;  but 
now,  when  middle  age  stood  at  last  confessed,  she  was 
lapsing,  it  seemed,  into  amiability  and  good  behavior. 
She  was,  indeed,  fast  forgetting  her  own  history,  and  soon 
the  recital  of  it  would  surprise  no  one  so  much  as  herself. 

430 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

It  was  five  o'clock.  Madame  d'Estrees  had  iust  es- 
tablished herself  in  the  silk-panelled  drawing-room  of 
Donna  Laura's  apartment,  expectant  of  visitors,  and, 
in  particular,  of  her  daughter. 

In  begging  Kitty  to  come  on  this  particular  after- 
noon, she  had  not  thought  fit  to  mention  that  it  would 
be  Donna  Laura's  "day."  Had  she  done  so,  Kitty,  in 
consideration  of  her  mourning,  would  perhaps  have 
cried  off.  Whereas,  really — poor,  dear  child! — what  she 
wanted  was  distraction  and  amusement. 

And  what  Madame  d'Estrees  wanted  was  the  pres- 
ence beside  her,  in  public,  of  Lady  Kitty  Ashe.  Kitty 
had  already  visited  her  mother  privately,  and  had  ex- 
plored the  antiquities  of  the  Vercelli  palace.  But 
Madame  d'Estrees  was  now  intent  on  something  more 
and  different. 

For  in  the  four  years  which  had  now  elapsed  since 
the  Ashe's  marriage  this  lively  lady  had  known  ad- 
versity. She  had  been  forced  to  leave  London,  as  we 
have  seen,  by  the  pressure  of  certain  facts  in  her  past 
history  so  ancient  and  far  removed  when  their  true 
punishment  began  that  she  no  doubt  felt  it  highly  un- 
just that  she  should  be  punished  for  them  at  all.  Her 
London  debts  had  swallowed  up  what  then  remained  to 
her  of  fortune;  and,  afterwards,  the  allowance  from 
the  Ashes  was  all  she  had  to  depend  on.  Banished 
to  Paris,  she  fell  into  a  lower  stratum  of  life,  at  a 
moment  when  her  faithful  and  mysterious  friend,  Mark- 
ham  Warington,  was  held  in  Scotland  by  the  first  pain- 
ful symptoms  of  his  sister's  last  illness,  and  could  do 
but  little  for  her.  She  had,  in  fact,  known  the  sordid 
shifts  and  straits  of  poverty,  though  the  smallest  moral 

431 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

effort  would  have  saved  her  from  them.  She  had  kept 
disreputable  company,  she  had  been  miserable,  and 
base;  and  although  shame  is  not  easy  to  persons  of  her 
temperament,  it  may  perhaps  be  said  that  she  was 
ashamed  of  this  period  of  her  existence.  Appeals  to 
the  Ashes  yielded  less  and  less,  and  Warington  seemed 
to  have  forsaken  her.  She  awoke  at  last  to  a  panic- 
stricken  fear  of  darker  possibilities  and  more  real  suffer- 
ing than  any  she  had  yet  known,  and  under  the  stress 
of  this  fear  she  collapsed  physically,  writing  both  to 
Warington  and  to  the  Ashes  in  a  tone  of  mingled  re- 
proach and  despair. 

The  Ashes  sent  money,  and,  though  Kitty  was  at  the 
moment  not  fit  to  travel,  prepared  to  come.  Warington, 
who  had  just  closed  the  eyes  of  his  sister,  went  at  once. 
He  was  now  the  last  of  his  family,  without  any  ties 
that  he  could  not  lawfully  break.  Within  two  days  of 
his  arrival  in  Paris,  Madame  d'Estrdes  had  promised  to 
marry  him  in  three  months,  to  break  off  all  her  Paris 
associations,  and  to  give  her  life  henceforward  into  his 
somewhat  stern  hands.  The  visit  to  Venice  was  part 
of  the  price  that  he  had  had  to  pay  for  her  decision. 
Marguerite  pleaded,  with  a  shudder,  that  she  must  have 
a  little  amusement  before  she  went  to  live  in  Dumfries- 
shire; and  he  had  been  obliged  to  acquiesce  in  her  ar- 
rangement with  Donna  Laur^ — stipulating  only  that  he 
should  be  their  escort  and  giiardian. 

What  had  moved  him  to  such  an  act?  His  reasons 
can  only  be  guessed  at.  Warington  was  a  man  of  re- 
ligion, a  Calvinist  by  education  and  inheritance,  and 
of  a  silent  and  dreamy  temperament.  He  had  been  in- 
timate with  very  few  women  in  his  life.     His  sister  had 

432 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

been  a  second  mother  to  him,  and  both  of  them  had 
been  the  guardians  of  their  younger  brother.  When  this 
adored  brother  fell  shot  through  the  lungs  in  the  hope- 
less defence  of  Lady  Blackwater's  reputation,  it  would 
have  been  natural  enough  that  Markham  should  hate 
the  woman  who  had  been  the  occasion  of  such  a  calam- 
it5^  The  sister,  a  pious  and  devoted  Christian,  had 
indeed  hated  her,  properly  and  duly,  thenceforward. 
Markham,  on  the  contrary,  accepted  his  brother's  last 
commission  without  reluctance.  In  this  matter  at  least 
Lady  Blackwater  had  not  been  directly  to  blame;  his 
mind  acquitted  her;  and  her  soft,  distressed  beauty 
touched  his  heart.  Before  he  knew  where  he  was  she 
had  made  an  impression  upon  him  that  was  to  be  life- 
long. 

Then  gradually  he  awoke  to  a  full  knowledge  of  her 
character.  He  suffered,  but  otherwise  it  made  no  dif- 
ference. Finding  it  was  then  impossible  to  persuade 
her  to  marry  him,  he  watched  over  her  as  best  he  could 
for  some  years,  passing  through  phases  of  alternate  hope 
and  disgust.  His  sister's  affection  for  him  was  clouded 
by  his  strange  relation  to  the  Jezebel  who  in  her  opinion 
had  destroyed  their  brother.  He  could  not  help  it;  he 
could  only  do  his  best  to  meet  both  claims  upon  him. 
During  her  lingering  passage  to  the  grave,  his  sister  had 
nearly  severed  him  from  Marguerite  d'Estrees.  She  died, 
however,  just  in  time,  and  now  here  he  was  in  Venice, 
passing  through  what  seemed  to  him  one  of  the  ante- 
rooms of  life,  leading  to  no  very  radiant  beyond.  But, 
radiant  or  no,  his  path  lay  thither.  And  at  the  same 
time  he  saw  that  although  Marguerite  felt  him  to  be 
her  only  refuge  from  povert}'   and   disgrace,   she  was 

433 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

painfully  afraid  of  him,  and  afraid  of  the  Hfe  into  which 
he  was  leading  her. 

The  first  guest  of  the  afternoon  proved  to  be  Louis 
Harman,  the  painter  and  dilettante,  who  had  been  in 
former  days  one  of  the  habitues  of  the  house  in  St. 
James's  Place.  This  perfectly  correct  yet  tolerant  gen- 
tleman was  wintering  in  Venice  in  order  to  copy  the 
Carpaccios  in  San  Giorgio  dei  Schiavoni.  His  copies 
were  not  good,  but  they  were  all  promised  to  artistic 
fair  ladies,  and  the  days  which  the  painter  spent  upon 
them  were  happy  and  harmless. 

He  came  in  gayly,  delighted  to  see  Madame  d'Estrees 
in  flourishing  circumstances  again,  delivered  apparently 
from  the  abyss  into  which  he  had  found  her  sliding  on 
the  occasion  of  various  chance  visits  of  his  own  to 
Paris.     Warington's  doing,  apparently — queer  fellow! 

"Well! — I  saw  Lady  Kitty  in  the  Piazza  this  after- 
noon," he  said,  as  he  sat  down  beside  his  hostess.  Donna 
Laura  had  not  yet  appeared.  "Very  thin  and  fragile! 
But,  by  Jove!  how  these  English  beauties  hold  their 
own." 

"  Irish,  if  you  please,"  said  Madame  d'Estrees,  smiling. 

Harman  bowed  to  her  correction,  admiring  at  the 
same  time  both  the  toilette  and  the  good  looks  of  his 
companion.  Dropping  his  voice,  he  asked,  with  a  gin- 
gerly and  sympathetic  air,  whether  all  was  now  well  with 
the  Ashe  menage.  He  had  been  sorry  to  hear  certain 
gossip  of  the  year  before. 

Madame  d'Estrees  laughed.  Yes,  she  understood  that 
Kitty  had  behaved  like  a  little  goose  with  that  poseur 
Cliffe.     But  that  was  all  over — long  ago. 

434 


The    Marriage    o^   William   Ashe 

"Why,  the  silly  child  has  everything  she  wants! 
William  is  devoted  to  her — and  it  can't  be  long  before 
he  succeeds." 

"No  need  to  go  trifling  with  poets,"  said  Harman, 
smiling.  "By -the -way,  do  you  know  that  Geoffrey 
Clifie  is  in  Venice?" 

Madame  d'Estrees  opened  her  eyes.  "  Est-il  possible  ? 
Oh!  but  Kitty  has  forgotten  all  about  him." 

"Of  course,"  said  Harman.  "I  am  told  he  has  been 
seen  with  the  Ricci." 

Madame  d'Estrees  raised  her  shoulders  this  time  in 
addition  to  her  eyes.     Then  her  face  clouded. 

"I  believe,"  she  said,  slowly,  "that  woman  may  come 
here  this  afternoon." 

"  Is  she  a  friend  of  yours  ?"  Harman's  tone  expressed 
his  surprise. 

"1  knew  her  in  Paris,"  said  Madame  d'Estrees,  with 
some  hesitation,  "when  she  was  a  student  at  the  Con- 
servatoire. She  and  I  had  some  common  acquaint- 
ance. And  now  —  frankly,  I  daren't  offend  her.  She 
has  the  most  appalling  temper!  —  and  she  sticks  at 
nothing." 

Harman  wondered  what  the  exact  truth  of  this  might 
be,  but  did  not  inquire.  And  as  guests— including  Colo- 
nel Warington — began  to  arrive,  and  Donna  Laura  ap- 
peared and  began  to  dispense  tea,  the  tete  -a- tete  was 
interrupted. 

Donna  Laura's  salon  was  soon  well  filled,  and  Har- 
man watched  the  gathering  with  curiosity.  As  far  as 
it  concerned  Madame  d'Estrees — and  she  was  clearly 
the  main  attraction  which  had  brought  it  together — ^it 
represented,  he  saw,  a  phase  of  social  recovery.     A  few 

435 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

prominent  Englishmen,  passing  through  Venice,  came 
in  without  their  wives,  making  perfunctory  excuse  for 
the  absence  of  these  ladies.  But  the  cosmopolitans  of 
all  kinds,  who  crowded  in — Anglo-Italians,  foreign  dip- 
lomats, travellers  of  many  sorts,  and  a  few  restless 
Venetians,  bearing  the  great  names  of  old,  to  whom 
their  own  Venice  was  little  more  than  a  place  of  occa- 
sional sojourn — made  satisfactory  amends  for  these  per- 
sons of  too  long  memories.  In  all  these  travellers' 
towns,  Venice,  Rome,  and  Florence,  there  is  indeed  a 
society,  and  a  very  agreeable  society,  which  is  wholly 
irresponsible,  and  asks  few  or  no  questions.  The  ele- 
ments of  it  meet  as  strangers,  and  as  strangers  they 
mostly  part.  But  between  the  meeting  and  the  parting 
there  lies  a  moment,  all  the  gayer,  perhaps,  because  of 
its  social  uncertainty  and  freedom. 

Madame  d'Estrees  was  profiting  by  it  to  the  full. 
She  was  in  excellent  spirits  and  talk;  bright-rose  carna- 
tions shone  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress;  one  white  arm, 
bared  to  the  elbow,  lay  stretched  carelessly  on  the  fine 
cut-velvet  which  covered  the  gilt  sofa — part  of  a  suite  of 
Venetian  Louis  Quinze,  clumsily  gorgeous — on  which 
she  sat;  the  other  hand  pulled  the  ears  of  a  toy  spaniel. 
On  the  ceiling  above  her,  Tiepolo  had  painted  a  head- 
long group  of  sensuous  forms,  alive  with  vulgar  move- 
ment and  passion;  the  putti  and  the  goddesses,  peering 
through  aerial  balustrades,  looked  down  complacently 
on  Madame  d'Estrees. 

Meanwhile  there  stood  behind  her  —  a  silent,  dis- 
tinguished figure — the  man  of  whom  Harman  saw  that 
she  was  always  nervously  and  sometimes  timidly  con- 
scious.    Harman  had  been  reading  Moliere's  Don  Juan. 

436 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  sentinel  figure  of  Warington  mingled  in  his  imagi- 
nation with  the  statue  of  the  Commander. 

Or,  again,  he  was  tickled  by  a  vision  of  Madame 
d'Estrees  grown  old,  living  in  a  Scotch  house,  turreted 
and  severe,  tended  by  servants  of  the  "Auld  Licht,"  or 
shivering  under  a  faithful  minister  on  Sundays.  Had 
she  any  idea  of  the  sort  of  fold  towards  which  Waring- 
ton— at  once  Covenanter  and  man  of  the  world — was 
carrying  his  lost  sheep  ? 

The  sheep,  however,  was  still  gambolling  at  large. 
Occasionally  a  guest  appeared  who  proved  it.  For  in- 
stance, at  a  certain  tumultuous  entrance,  billowing 
skirts,  vast  hat,  and  high-pitched  voice  all  combining 
in  the  effect,  Madame  d'Estrees  flushed  violently,  and 
Warington's  stiffness  redoubled.  On  the  threshold 
stood  the  young  actress,  Mademoiselle  Ricci,  a  Marseil- 
laise, half  French,  half  Italian,  who  was  at  the  moment 
the  talk  of  Venice.  Why,  would  take  too  long  to  tell. 
It  was  by  no  means  mostly  due  to  her  talent,  which, 
however,  was  displayed  at  the  Apollo  theatre  two  or 
three  times  a  week,  and  was  no  doubt  considerable. 
She  was  a  flamboyant  lady,  with  astonishing  black  eyes, 
a  too  transparent  white  dress,  over  which  was  slung  a 
small  black  mantilla,  a  scarlet  hat  and  parasol,  and  a 
startling  fan  of  the  same  color.  Both  before  and  after 
her  greeting  of  Madame  d'Estrees — whom  she  called 
her  "cherie"  and  her  "belle  Marguerite" — she  created 
a  whirlwind  in  the  salon.  She  was  noisy,  rude,  and 
false;  it  could  only  be  said  on  the  other  side  that  she 
was  handsome — for  those  who  admired  the  kind  ot 
thing;  and  famous — more  or  less.  The  intimacy  of  the 
party  was  broken  up  by  her,  for  wherever  she  was  she 

437 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

brought  uproar,  and  it  was  impossible  to  forget  her. 
And  this  uneasy  attention  which  she  compelled  was  at 
its  height  when  the  door  was  once  more  thrown  open 
for  the  entrance  of  Lady  Kitty  Ashe. 

"Ah,  my  darling  Kitty!"  cried  Madame  d'Estr^es, 
rising  in  a  soft  enthusiasm, 

Kitty  came  in  slowly,  holding  herself  very  erect,  a 
delicate  and  distinguished  figure,  in  her  deep  mourning. 
She  frowned  as  she  saw  the  crowd  in  the  room. 

"I'll  come  another  time!"  she  said,  hastily,  to  her 
mother,  beginning  to  retreat. 

"Oh,  Kitty!"  cried  Madame  d'Estrees,  in  distress, 
holding  her  fast. 

At  that  moment  Harman,  who  was  watching  them 
both  with  keenness,  saw  that  Kitty  had  perceived  Mad- 
emoiselle Ricci.  The  actress  had  paused  in  her  chatter 
to  stare  at  the  new-comer.  She  sat  fronting  the  en- 
trance, her  head  insolently-  thrown  back,  knees  crossed, 
a  cigarette  poised  in  the  plump  and  dimpled  hand, 

A  start  ran  through  Kitty's  small  person.  She  al- 
lowed her  mother  to  lead  her  in  and  introduce  her  to 
Donna  Laura. 

"Ah-ha,  my  lady!"  said  Harman,  to  himself.  "Are 
you,  perhaps,  interested  in  the  Ricci  ?  Is  it  possible 
even  that  you  have  seen  her  before  ?" 

Kitty,  however,  betrayed  herself  to  no  one  else.  To 
other  people  it  was  only  evident  that  she  did  not  mean 
to  be  introduced  to  the  actress.  She  pointedly  and 
sharply  avoided  it.  This  was  interpreted  as  aristocratic 
hauteur,  and  did  her  no  harm.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  soon  chattering  French  with  a  group  of  diplomats, 
and  the  centre  of  the  most  animated  group  in  the  room. 

438 


"  THE    ACTRESS    PAUSED    TO    STARE    AT    LADY    KITTY 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

All  the  new-comers  who  could  attached  themselves  to  it, 
and  the  actress  found  herself  presently  almost  deserted. 
She  put  up  her  eyeglass,  studied  Kitty  impertinently, 
and  asked  a  man  sitting  near  her  for  the  name  of  the 
strange  lady. 

"Isn't  she  lovely,  my  little  Kitty!"  said  Madame 
d'Estrees,  in  the  ears  of  a  Bavarian  baron,  who  was  also 
much  occupied  in  staring  at  the  small  beauty  in  black. 
"  I  may  say  it,  though  I  am  her  mother.  And  my  son- 
in-law,  too.  Have  you  seen  him?  Such  a  handsome 
fellow! — and  such  a  dear! — so  kind  to  me.  They  say, 
you  know,  that  he  will  be  Prime  Minister." 

The  baron  bowed,  ironically,  and  inquired  who  the 
gentleman  might  be.  He  had  not  caught  Kitty's  name, 
and  Madame  d'Estrees  had  been  for  some  time  labelled 
in  his  mind  as  something  very  near  to  an  adventuress, 

Madame  d'Estrees  eagerly  explained,  and  he  bowed 
again,  with  a  difference.  He  was  a  man  of  great  intelli- 
gence, acquainted  with  English  politics.  So  that  was 
really  the  wife  of  the  man  to  whose  personality  and 
future  the  London  correspondent  of  the  Allgemeine  Zei- 
tung  had  within  the  preceding  week  devoted  a  particu- 
larly interesting  article,  which  he  had  read  with  atten- 
tion. His  estimate  of  Madame  d'Estrees'  place  in  the 
world  altered  at  once.  Yet  it  was  strange  that  she — or, 
rather,  Donna  Laura — should  admit  such  a  person  as 
Mademoiselle  Ricci  to  their  salon. 

The  mother,  indeed,  that  afternoon  had  much  reason 
to  be  socially  grateful  to  the  daughter.  Curious  con- 
trast with  the  days  when  Kitty  had  been  the  mere 
troublesome  appendage  of  her  mother's  life!  It  was 
clear  to  Marguerite  d'Estrees  now  that  if  she  was  to  ac- 

439 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

cept  restraint  and  virtuous  living,  if  she  was  to  submit 
to  this  marriage  she  dreaded,  yet  saw  no  way  to  escape, 
her  best  Hnk  with  the  gay  world  in  the  future  might 
well  be  through  the  Ashes.  Kitty  could  do  a  great  deal 
for  her;  let  her  cultivate  Kitty;  and  begin,  perhaps,  by 
convincing  William  Ashe  on  this  present  occasion  that 
for  once  she  was  not  going  to  ask  him  for  money. 

In  the  height  of  the  party,  Lord  Magellan  appeared. 
Madame  d'Estrees  at  first  looked  at  him  with  bewilder- 
ment, till  Kitty,  shaking  herself  free,  came  hastily  for- 
ward to  introduce  him.  At  the  name  the  mother's  face 
flashed  into  smiles.  The  ramifications  of  two  or  three 
aristocracies  represented  the  only  subject  she  might 
be  said  to  know.     Dear  Kitty! 

Lord  Magellan,  after  Madame  d'Estrees  had  talked  to 
him  about  his  family  in  a  few  light  and  skilful  phrases, 
which  suggested  knowledge,  while  avoiding  flattery,  v\ras 
introduced  to  the  Bavarian  baron  and  a  French  naval 
offtcer.  But  he  was  not  interesting  to  them,  nor  they  to 
him;  Kitty  was  surrounded  and  unapproachable;  and  a 
flood  of  new  arrivals  distracted  Madame  d'Estrees'  atten- 
tion. The  Ricci,  who  had  noticed  the  restrained  em- 
pressement  of  his  reception,  pounced  on  the  young  man, 
taming  her  ways  and  gestures  to  what  she  supposed  to 
be  his  English  prudery,  and  produced  an  immediate 
effect  upon  him.  Lord  Magellan,  who  was  only  dumb 
with  English  marriageable  girls,  allowed  himself  to  be 
amused,  and  threw  himself  into  a  low  chair  by  the  ac- 
tress— a  capture  apparently  for  the  afternoon. 

Louis  Harman  was  sitting  behind  Kitty,  a  little  to  her 
right.  He  saw  her  watching  the  actress  and  her  com- 
panion; noticed  a  compression  of  the  Hp,  a  flash  in  the 

440 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

eye.  She  sprang  up,  said  she  must  go  home,  and  practi- 
cally dissolved  the  party. 

Mademoiselle  Ricci,  who  had  also  risen,  proposed  to 
Lord  Magellan  that  she  should  take  him  in  her  gondola 
to  the  shop  of  a  famous  dealer  on  the  Canal. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Lord  Magellan,  irreso- 
lute, and  he  looked  at  Kitty.  The  look  apparently  de- 
cided him,  for  he  immediately  added  that  he  had  unfort- 
unately an  engagement  in  the  opposite  direction.  The 
actress  angrily  drew  herself  up,  and  proposed  a  later 
appointment.     Then   Kitty   carelessly  intervened. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  you  promised  to  see  me 
home?"  she  said  to  the  young  man.  "  Don't  if  it  bores 
you!" 

Lord  Magellan  eagerly  protested.  Kitty  moved  away, 
and  he  followed  her. 

"Chere  madame,  will  you  present  me  to  your  daugh- 
ter?" said  the  Ricci,  in  an  unnecessarily  loud  voice. 

Madame  d'Estrees,  with  a  flurried  gesture,  touched 
Kitty  on  the  arm. 

"Kitty,  Mademoiselle  Ricci." 

Kitty  took  no  notice.  Madame  d'Estrees  said,  quick- 
ly, in  a  low,  imploring  voice: 

"Please,  dear  Kitty.     I'll  explain." 

Kitty  turned  abruptly,  looked  at  her  mother,  and  at 
the  woman  to  whom  she  was  to  be  introduced. 

"Ah!  comme  elle  est  charmante!"  cried  the  actress, 
with  an  inflection  of  irony  in  her  strident  voice.  "  Miladi, 
il  faut  absolument  que  nous  nous  connaissions.  Je 
connais  votre  chere  mere  depuis  si  longtemps!  A  Pans, 
I'hiver  pass6  c'^tait  une  amitie  des  plus  tendres!" 

The  nasal  drag  she  gave  to  the  words  was  partly 
••  441 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

natural,  partly  insolent.  Madame  d'Estrees  bit  her 
lip. 

"Oui?"  said  Kitty,  indifferently.  "Je  n'en  avais 
jamais  entendu  parler." 

Her  brilliant  eyes  studied  the  woman  before  her. 
"She  has  some  hold  on  maman,"  she  said  to  herself,  in 
disgust.  "She  knows  of  something  shady  that  maman 
has  done."  Then  another  thought  stung  her;  and  with 
the  most  indifferent  bow,  triumphing  in  the  evident 
ofifence  that  she  was  giving,  she  turned  to  Lord  Magellan. 

"You'd  like  to  see  the  Palazzo?" 

Warington  at  once  offered  himself  as  a  guide. 

But  Kitty  declared  she  knew  the  way,  would  just  show 
Lord  Magellan  the  piano  nobile,  dismiss  him  at  the  grand 
staircase,  and  return.     Lord  Magellan  made  his  farewells. 

As  Kitty  passed  through  the  door  of  the  salon,  while 
the  young  man  held  back  the  velvet  portiere  which  hung 
over  it,  she  was  aware  that  Mademoiselle  Ricci  was 
watching  her.  The  Marseillaise  was  leaning  heavily  on 
a  fauteuil,  supported  by  a  hand  behind  her.  A  slow, 
disdainful  smile  played  about  her  lips,  some  evil  threat- 
ening thought  expressed  itself  through  every  feature  of 
her  rounded,  coarsened  beauty.  Kitty's  sharp  look  met 
hers,  and  the  curtain  dropped. 

"  Don't,  please,  let  that  woman  take  you  anywhere — 
to  see  anything!"  said  Kitty,  with  energy,  to  her  com- 
panion, as  they  walked  through  the  rooms  of  the  ntez- 
zanino. 

Lord  Magellan  laughed.  "What's  the  matter  with 
her?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  said  Kitty,  impatiently,  "except  that 
442 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

she's  wicked — and  common — and  a  snake — and  your 
mother  would  have  a  fit  if  she  knew  you  had  anything 
to  do  with  her." 

The  red-haired  youth  looked  grave. 

"Thank  you,  Lady  Kitty,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I'll 
take  your  advice." 

"Oh,  I  say,  what  a  nice  boy  you  are!"  cried  Kitty, 
impulsively,  laying  a  hand  a  moment  on  his  shoulder. 
And  then,  as  though  his  filial  instinct  had  awakened  hers, 
she  added,  with  hasty  falsehood:  "Maman,  of  course, 
knows  nothing  about  her.  That  was  just  bluff  what  she 
said.  But  Donna  Laura  oughtn't  to  ask  such  people. 
There — that's  the  way." 

And  she  pointed  to  a  small  staircase  in  the  wall, 
whereof  the  trap-door  at  the  top  was  open.  They 
climbed  it,  and  found  themselves  at  once  in  one  of  the 
great  rooms  of  the  piano  nobile,  to  which  this  quick  and 
easy  access  from  the  inhabited  entresol  had  been  but 
recently  contrived. 

"What  a  marvellous  place!"  cried  Lord  Magellan, 
looking  round  him. 

They  were  in  the  principal  apartment  of  the  famous 
Vercelli  palace,  a  legacy  from  one  of  those  classical 
architects  whose  work  may  be  seen  in  the  late  seven- 
teenth-century buildings  of  Venice.  The  rooms,  enor- 
mously high,  panelled  here  and  there  in  tattered  velvets 
and  brocades,  or  frescoed  in  fast-fading  scenes  of  old 
Venetian  life,  stretched  in  bewildering  succession  on  either 
side  of  a  central  passage  or  broad  corridor,  all  of  them 
leading  at  last  on  the  northern  side  to  a  vast  hall  painted 
in  architectural  perspective  by  the  pupils  of  Tiepolo,  and 
overarched  by  a  ceiling   in  which   the   master  himself 

443 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

had  massed  a  multitude  of  forms  equal  to  Rubens  in 
variety  and  facility  of  design,  expressed  in  a  thin  trench- 
ancy  of  style.  Figures  recalling  the  ancient  triumphs 
and  possessions  of  Venice,  in  days  when  she  sat  dis- 
honored and  despoiled,  crowded  the  coved  roof,  the 
painted  cornices  and  pediments.  Gayly  colored  birds 
hovered  in  blue  skies ;  philosophers  and  poets  in  grisaille 
made  a  strange  background  for  large-limbed  beauties 
couched  on  roses,  or  young  warriors  amid  trophies  of 
shining  arms;  and  while  all  this  garrulous  common- 
place lived  and  breathed  above,  the  walls  below,  cold 
in  color  and  academic  in  treatment,  maintained  as  best 
they  could  the  dignity  of  the  vast  place,  thus  given  up 
to  one  of  the  greatest  of  artists  and  emptiest  of  minds. 

On  the  floor  of  this  magnificent  hall  stood  a  few  old 
and  broken  chairs.  But  the  candelabra  of  glass  and 
ormolu,  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  were  very  nearly  of 
the  date  of  the  palace,  and  superb.  Meanwhile, 
through  a  faded  tafifeta  of  a  golden  -  brown  shade,  the 
afternoon  light  from  the  high  windows  to  the  southwest 
poured  into  the  stately  room. 

"How  it  dwarfs  us!"  said  Lord  Magellan,  looking  at 
his  companion.  "One  feels  the  merest  pygmy!  From 
the  age  of  decadence  indeed!"  He  glanced  at  the  guide- 
book in  his  hand.  "Good  Heavens! — if  this  was  their 
decay,  what  was  their  bloom?" 

"Yes — it's  big — and  jolly.  I  like  it,"  said  Kitty, 
absently.  Then  she  recollected  herself.  "This  is  your 
way  out.  Federigo!"  she  called  to  an  old  man,  the 
custode  of  the  palace,  who  appeared  at  the  magnificent 
door  leading  to  the  grand  staircase. 

"Commanda,  eccellenza!"  The  old  man,  bent  and 
444 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

feeble,  approached.  He  carried  a  watering-pot  where- 
with he  was  about  to  minister  to  some  straggUng  flowers 
in  the  windows  fronting  the  Grand  Canal.  A  thin  cat 
rubbed  itself  against  his  legs.  As  he  stood  in  his  shab- 
biness  under  the  high,  carved  door,  the  only  permanent 
denizen  of  the  building,  he  seemed  an  embodiment  of  the 
old  shrunken  Venetian  life,  still  haimting  a  city  it  was 
no  longer  strong  enough  to  use. 

"Will  you  show  this  signor  the  way  out?"  said  Kitty, 
in  tourists'  Italian.     "Are  you  soon  shutting  up?" 

For  the  main  palazzo,  which  during  the  day  was 
often  shown  to  sightseers,  was  locked  at  half-past  five, 
only  the  two  entresols — one  tenanted  by  Donna  Laura, 
the  other  by  the  custode — remaining  accessible. 

The  old  man  murmured  something  which  Kitty  did 
not  understand,  pointing  at  the  same  time  to  a  door  lead- 
ing to  the  interior  of  the  piano  nohile.  Kitty  thought 
that  he  asked  her  to  be  quick,  if  she  wished  still  to  go 
round  the  palace.  She  tried  to  explain  that  he  might 
lock  up  if  he  pleased ;  her  way  of  retreat  to  the  mez- 
zanino,  down  the  small  staircase,  was  always  open. 
Federigo  looked  puzzled,  again  said  something  in  un- 
intelligible Venetian,  and  led  the  way  to  the  grand  stair- 
case followed  by  Lord  Magellan. 

A  heavy  door  clanged  below.  Kitty  was  alone.  She 
looked  round  her,  at  the  stretches  of  marble  floor,  and 
the  streaks  of  pale  sunshine  that  lay  upon  its  black  and 
white,  at  the  lofty  walls  painted  with  a  dim  superb 
architecture,  at  the  crowded  ceiling,  the  gorgeous  can- 
delabra. With  its  costly  decoration,  the  great  room 
suggested  a  rich  and  festal  life;  thronging  groups  below 

445 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

answering  to  the  Tiepolo  groups  above ;  beauties  patched 
and  masked;  gallants  in  brocaded  coats;  splendid  sena- 
tors, robed  like  William  at  the  fancy  ball. 

Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in  one  of  the  high 
and  narrow  mirrors  that  filled  the  spaces  between  the 
windows.  In  her  mourning  dress,  with  the  light  behind 
her,  she  made  a  tiny  spectre  in  the  immense  hall.  The 
image  of  her  present  self — frail,  black-robed — recalled 
the  two  figures  in  the  glass  of  her  Hill  Street  room — the 
sparkling  white  of  her  goddess  dress,  and  William's 
smiling  face  above  hers,  his  arm  round  her  waist. 

How  happy  she  had  been  that  night!  Even  her  wild 
fury  with  Mary  Lyster  seemed  to  her  now  a  kind  of 
happiness.  How  gladly  would  she  have  exchanged  for 
it  either  of  the  two  terrors  that  now  possessed  her! 

With  a  shiver  she  crossed  the  hall,  and  pushed  her 
way  into  the  suite  of  rooms  on  the  northern  side.  She 
felt  herself  in  absolute  possession  of  the  palace.  Federigo 
no  doubt  had  locked  up;  her  mother  and  a  few  guests 
were  still  talking  in  the  salon  of  the  mezzanino,  expect- 
ing her  to  return.  She  would  return — soon;  but  the 
solitariness  and  wildness  of  this  deserted  place  drew 
her  on. 

Room  after  room  opened  before  her — bare,  save  for 
a  few  worm-eaten  chairs,  a  fragment  of  tapestry  on  the 
wall,  or  some  tattered  portraits  in  the  Longhi' manner, 
indifferent  to  begin  with,  and  long  since  ruined  by  neg- 
lect. Yet  here  and  there  a  young  face  looked  out, 
roses  in  the  hair  and  at  the  breast;  or  a  Doge's  cap — and 
beneath  it  phantom  features  still  breathing  even  in  the 
last  decay  of  canvas  and  paint  the  violence  and  intrigue 
of  the  living  man — the  ghost  of  character  held  there  by 

446 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

the  ghost  of  art.  Or  a  lad  in  slashed  brocade,  for  whom 
even  in  this  silent  palace,  and  in  spite  of  the  gaping 
crack  across  his  face,  life  was  still  young;  a  cardinal;  a 
nun;  a  man  of  letters  in  clerical  dress,  the  Abb6  Pre- 
vost  of  his  day  .  .  . 

Presently  she  found  herself  in  a  wide  corridor,  before 
a  high,  closed  door.  She  tried  it,  and  saw  a  staircase 
mounting  and  descending.  A  passion  of  curiosity  that 
was  half  romance,  half  restlessness,  drove  her  on.  She 
began  to  ascend  the  marble  steps,  hearing  only  the  echo 
of  her  own  movements,  a  little  afraid  of  the  cold  spaces 
of  the  vast  house,  and  yet  delighting  in  the  fancies  that 
crowded  upon  her.  At  the  top  of  the  flight  she  found, 
of  course,  another  apartment,  on  the  same  plan  as  the 
one  below,  but  smaller  and  less  stately.  The  central 
hall  entered  from  a  door  supported  by  marble  caryatids, 
was  flagged  in  yellow  marble,  and  frescoed  freely  with 
faded  eighteenth-century  scenes — cardinals  walking  in 
stiflE  gardens,  a  pope  alighting  from  his  coach,  surround- 
ed by  peasants  on  their  knees,  and  behind  him  foun- 
tains and  obelisk  and  the  towering  facade  of  St.  Peter's. 
At  the  moment,  thanks  to  a  last  glow  of  light  coming 
in  through  a  west  window  at  the  farther  end,  it  was  a 
place  beautiful  though  forlorn.  But  the  rooms  into 
which  she  looked  on  either  side  were  wreck  and  deso- 
lation itself,  crowded  with  broken  furniture,  many  of 
them  shuttered  and  dark. 

As  she  closed  the  last  door,  her  attention  was  caught 
by  a  strange  bust  placed  on  a  pedestal  above  the  en- 
trance. What  was  wrong  with  it  ?  An  accident  ?  An 
injury  ?  She  went  nearer,  straining  her  eves  to  see. 
No! — there  was  no  injury.     The  face  indeed  was  gone. 

447 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Or,  rather,  where  the  face  should  ha\'e  been  there  now 
descended  a  marble  veil  from  brow  to  breast,  of  the 
most  singular  and  sinister  effect.  Otherwise  the  bust 
was  that  of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman.  A  pleasing 
horror  seized  on  Kitty  as  she  looked.  Her  fancy  hunted 
for  the  clew.  A  faithless  wife,  blotted  from  her  place  ? 
— made  infamous  forever  by  the  veil  which  hid  from 
human  eye  the  beauty  she  had  dishonored?  Or  a  be- 
loved mistress,  on  v/hom  the  mourning  lover  could  no 
longer  bear  to  look — the  veil  an  emblem  of  undying 
and  irremediable  grief? 

Kitty  stood  enthralled,  striving  to  pierce  the  ghastly 
meaning  of  the  bust,  when  a  sound — a  distant  sound — 
sent  a  shock  through  her.  She  heard  a  step  overhead, 
in  the  topmost  apartment,  or  mansarde  of  the  palace,  a 
step  that  presently  traversed  the  whole  length  of  the 
floor  immediately  above  her  head  and  began  to  descend 
the  stair. 

Strange!  Federigo  must  have  shut  the  great  gates  by 
this  time — as  she  had  bade  him  ?  He  himself  inhabited 
the  smaller  entresol  on  the  farther  side  of  the  palace,  far 
away.  Other  inhabitants  there  were  none;  so  Donna 
Laura  had  assured  her 

The  step  approached,  resonant  in  the  silence.  Kitty, 
seized  with  nervous  fright,  turned  and  ran  down  the 
broad  staircase  b}?-  which  she  had  come,  through  the 
series  of  deserted  rooms  in  the  piano  nohile,  till  she 
reached  the  great  hall. 

There  she  paused,  panting,  curiosity  and  daring  once 
more  getting  the  upperhand.  The  door  she  had  just 
passed  through,  which  gave  access  to  the  staircase, 
opened  again  and  shut.     The  stranger  who  had  entered 

448 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

came  leisurely  towards  the  hall,  lingering  apparently 
now  and  then  to  look  at  objects  on  the  way.  Presently 
a  voice — an  exclamation. 

Kitty  retreated,  caught  at  the  arm  of  a  chair  for  sup- 
port, clung  to  it  trembling.  A  man  entered,  holding 
his  hat  in  one  hand  and  a  small  white  glove  in  the 
other. 

At  sight  of  the  lad}^  in  black,  standing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hall,  he  started  violently — ^and  stopped. 
Then,  just  as  Kitty,  who  had  so  far  made  neither  sound 
nor  movement,  took  the  first  hurried  step  towards  the 
staircase  by  which  she  had  entered,  Geoffrey  Cliff e  came 
forward. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Lady  Kitty  ?  Do  not,  I  beg  of  you, 
let  me  disturb  you.  I  had  half  an  hour  to  spare,  and  I 
gave  the  old  man  down-stairs  a  franc  or  two,  that  he 
might  let  me  wander  over  this  magnificent  old  place 
by  myself  for  a  bit.  I  have  always  had  a  fancy  for 
deserted  houses.  You,  I  gather,  have  it,  too.  I  will 
not  interfere  with  you  for  a  moment.  Before  I  go,  how- 
ever, let  me  return  what  I  believe  to  be  your  property." 

He  came  nearer,  with  a  studied,  deliberate  air,  and 
held  out  the  white  glove.  She  saw  it  was  her  own  and 
accepted  it. 

"Thank  you." 

She  bowed  with  all  the  haughtiness  she  could  muster, 
though  her  limbs  shook  under  her.  Then  as  she  walked 
quickly  towards  the  door  of  exit,  Cliffe,  who  was  nearer 
to  it  than  she,  also  moved  towards  it,  and  threw  it  open 
for  her.     As  she  approached  him  he  said,  quietly: 

"This  is  not  the  first  time  we  have  met  in  Venice, 
Lady  Kitty." 

449 


The    M  a  r  r  i  a  gi  c    of    William    Ashe 

She  wavered,  could  not  avoid  lookinjj  at  him,  and 
stood  arrested.  That  almost  white  head! — that  fur- 
rowed brow! — those  haggard  eyes!  A  slight,  involun- 
tary cry  broke  from  her  Hps. 

Cliffe  smiled.     Then  he  straightened  his  tall  figure. 

"You  see,  perhaps,  that  I  have  not  grown  younger. 
You  are  quite  right.  I  have  left  my  youth — what  re- 
mained of  it — among  those  splendid  fellows  whom  the 
Turks  have  been  harrying  and  torturing.  Well! — they 
were  worth  it.     I  would  give  it  them  again." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

The  eyes  of  each  perused  the  other's  face.  Kitty 
began  some  words,  and  left  them  unfinished.  Cliffe 
resumed — in  another  tone — while  the  door  he  held  swung 
gently  backward,  his  hand  following  it. 

"  I  spent  last  winter,  as  perhaps  you  know,  with  the 
Bosnian  insurgents  in  the  mountains.  It  was  a  tough 
business — hardships  I  should  never  have  had  the  pluck 
to  face  if  I  had  known  what  was  before  me.  Then,  in 
July,  I  got  fever.  I  had  to  come  away,  to  find  a  doctor, 
and  I  was  a  long  time  at  Cattaro  pulling  round.  And, 
meanwhile,  the  Turks — God  blast  them! — have  been  at 
their  fiends'  work.  Half  my  particular  friends,  with 
whom  I  spent  the  winter,  have  been  hacked  to  pieces 
since  I  left  them." 

She  wavered,  held  by  his  look,  by  the  coercion  of  that 
mingled  passion  and  indifference  with  which  he  spoke. 
There  was  in  his  manner  no  suggestion  whatever  of 
things  behind,  no  reference  to  herself  or  to  the  past 
between  them.  His  passion,  it  seemed,  was  for  his 
comrades;  his  indifference  for  her.  What  had  he  to  do 
with  her  any  more?     He  had  been  among  the  realities 

45° 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

of  battle  and  death,  while  she  had  been  mincing  and 
ambling  along  the  usual  feminine  path.  That  was  the 
utterance,  it  seemed,  of  the  man's  whole  manner  and 
personality,  and  nothing  could  have  more  effectually 
recalled  Kitty's  wild  nature  to  the  lure. 

"Are  you  going  back?"  She  had  turned  from  him 
and  was  pulHng  at  the  fingers  of  the  glove  he  had 
picked  up. 

"Of  course!  I  am  only  kicking  my  heels  here  till 
I  can  collect  the  money  and  stores — ay,  and  the  men — 
I  want.  I  give  my  orders  in  London,  and  I  must  be 
here  to  see  to  the  transshipment  of  stores  and  the  em- 
barkation of  my  small  force!  Not  meant  for  the 
newspapers,  you  see,  Lady  Kitty  —  these  little  de- 
tails!" 

He  drew  himself  up  smiling,  his  worn  aspect  express- 
ing just  that  minghng  of  dare-devil  adventure  with 
subtler  and  more  self-conscious  things  which  gave  edge 
and  power  to  his  personality. 

"I  heard  you  were  wounded,"  said  Kitty,  abruptly. 

"So  I  was — badly.  We  were  defending  a  polje — one 
of  their  high  mountain  valleys,  against  a  Beg  and  his 
troops.  My  left  arm"— -he  pointed  to  the  black  sling  in 
which  it  was  still  held — "  was  nearly  cut  to  pieces.  How- 
ever, it  is  practically  well." 

He  took  it  out  of  the  sling  and  showed  that  he  could 
use  it.  Then  his  expression  changed.  He  stepped  back 
to  the  door,  and  opened  it  ceremoniously. 

"Don't,  however,  let  me  delay  you,  Lady  Kitty — by 
my  chatter." 

Kitty's  cheeks  were  crimson.  Her  momentary  yield- 
ing vanished  in  a  passion  of  scorn.     What! — he  knew 

451 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

that  she  had  seen  him  before,  seen  him  with  that  wom- 
an— and  he  dared  to  play  the  mere  shattered  hero,  kept 
in  Venice  by  these  crusader's  reasons! 

"Have  you  another  volume  on  the  way?"  she  asked 
him,  as  she  advanced.     "I  read  your  last." 

Her  smile  was  the  smile  of  an  enemy.  He  eyed  her 
strangely. 

"Did  you?     That  was  waste  of  time." 

"I  think  you  intended  I  should  read  it." 

He  hesitated. 

"Lady  Kitty,  those  things  are  very  far  away.  I 
can't  defend  myself — for  they  seem  wiped  out."  He 
had  crossed  his  arms,  and  was  leaning  back  against 
the  open  door,  a  fine,  rugged  figure,  by  no  means  re- 
pentant. 

Kitty  laughed. 

"You  overstate  the  difference!" 

"Between  the  past  and  the  present?  What  does 
that  mean?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes  a  moment,  then  raised  them. 

"Do  you  often  go  to  San  Lazzaro?" 

He  bowed. 

"I  had  a  suspicion  that  the  vision  at  the  window — 
though  it  was  there  only  an  instant — was  you!  So  you 
saw  Mademoiselle  Ricci?" 

His  tone  was  assurance  itself.  Kitty  disdained  to 
answer.  Her  slight  gesture  bade  him  let  her  pass 
through;  but  he  ignored  it. 

"I  find  her  kind,  Lady  Kitty.  She  listens  to  me — I 
get  sympathy  from  her." 

"And  you  want  sympathy?" 

Her  tone  stung  him.  "As  a  lumgry  man  wants  food 
452 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

— as  an  artist  wants  beauty.  But  1  know  where  1  shall 
not  get  it." 

"That  is  always  a  gain!"  said  Kitty,  throwing  back 
her  little  head.  "Mr.  Cliffe,  pray  let  me  bid  you  good- 
bye." 

He  suddenly  made  a  step  forward.  "Lady  Kitty!" 
— his  deep-set,  imperious  eyes  searched  her  face — "I 
can't  restrain  myself.  Your  look — your  expression — go 
to  my  heart.  Laugh  at  me  if  you  like.  It's  true. 
What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?" 

He  bent  towards  her,  scrutinizing  every  delicate  feat- 
ure, and,  as  it  seemed,  shaken  with  agitation.  She 
breathed  fast. 

"Mr.  Cliffe,  you  must  know  that  any  sympathy  from 
you  to  me — is  an  insult!     Kindly  let  me  pass." 

He,  too,  flushed  deeply. 

"Insult  is  a  hard  word,  Lady  Kitty.  I  regret  that 
poem." 

She  swept  forward  in  silence,  but  he  still  stood  in  the 
way. 

"I  wrote  it  —  almost  in  delirium.  Ah,  well" — he 
shook  his  head  impatiently — "if  you  don't  believe  me, 
let  it  be.  I  am  not  the  man  I  was.  The  perspective  of 
things  is  altered  for  me."  His  voice  fell.  "  Women  and 
children  in  their  blood — heroic  trust — and  brute  hate — 
the  stars  for  candles — the  high  peaks  for  friends — those 
things  have  come  between  me  and  the  past.  But  you 
are  right;  we  had  better  not  talk  any  more.  I  hear  old 
Federigo  coming  up  the  stairs.  Good-night,  Lady  Kitty 
— good -night!" 

He  opened  the  door.  She  passed  him,  and,  to  her  own 
intense  annoyance,  a  bunch  of  pale  roses  she  carried  at 

453 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

her  belt  brushed  against  the  doorway,  so  that  one  broke 
and  fell.  She  turned  to  pick  it  up,  but  it  was  already  in 
Cliffe's  hand.     She  held  out  hers,  threateningly. 

■'I  think  not."  He  put  it  in  his  pocket.  "Here  is 
Federigo.     Good-night/* 

It  was  quite  dark  when  Kitty  reached  home.  She 
groped  her  way  up-stairs  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
salon.  So  weary  was  she  that  she  dropped  into  the 
first  chair,  not  seeing  at  first  that  any  one  was  in  the 
room.  Then  she  caught  sight  of  a  brown-paper  parcel, 
apparently  just  imfastened,  on  the  table,  and  within  it 
three  books,  of  similar  shape  and  size.  A  movement 
startled  her. 

"William!" 

Ashe  rose  slowly  from  the  deep  chair  in  which  he  had 
been  sitting.  His  aspect  seemed  to  her  terrified  eyes 
utterly  and  wholly  changed.  In  his  hand  he  held  a 
book  like  those  on  the  table,  and  a  paper-cutter.  His 
face  expressed  the  remote  abstraction  of  a  man  who 
has  been  wrestling  his  way  through  some  hard  contest 
of  the  mind. 

She  ran  to  him.     She  wound  her  arms  round  him. 

"William,  William!  I  didn't  mean  any  harm!  I 
didn't!  Oh,  I  have  been  so  miserable!  I  tried  to  stop 
it — I  did  all  1  could.  I  have  hardly  slept  at  all — since 
we  talked — ^you  remember?  Oh,  William,  look  at  me! 
Don't  be  angry  with  me!" 

Ashe  disengaged  himself. 

"  I  have  asked  Blanche  to  pack  for  me  to-night,  Kitty. 
I  go  home  by  the  early  train  to-morrow." 

"Home!" 

454 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

She  stood  petrified ;  then  a  Hght  flashed  into  her  face. 
"You'll  buy  it  all  up?     You'll  stop  it,  William?" 
Ashe  drew  himself  together. 

"I  am  going  home,"  he  said,  with  slow  decision,  "to 
place  my  resignation  in  the  hands  of  Lord  Parham." 


XXI 

KITTY  fell  back  in  silence,  staring  at  William.  She 
loosened  her  mantle  and  threw  it  ofif,  then  she  sat 
down  in  a  chair  near  the  wood  fire,  and  bent  over  it, 
shivering. 

"Of  course  you  didn't  mean  that,  William?"  she  said, 
at  last. 

Ashe  turned. 

"I  should  not  have  said  it  unless  I  had  meant  every 
word  of  it.     It  is,  of  course,  the  only  thing  to  be  done." 

Kitty  looked  at  him  miserably.  "But  you  can't 
mean  that — that  you'll  resign  because  of  that  book?" 

She  pulled  it  towards  her  and  turned  over  the  pages 
with  a  hand  that  trembled.  "That  would  be  too  fool- 
ish!" 

Ashe  made  no  reply.  He  was  standing  before  the 
fire,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  a  face  half  absent, 
half  ironical,  as  though  his  mind  followed  the  sequences 
of  a  far  distant  future. 

"William!"  She  caught  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  with 
a  little  cry.  "I  wrote  that  book  because  I  thought  it 
would  help  you." 

His  attention  came  back  to  her. 

"Yes,  Kitty,  I  believe  you  did." 

She  gulped  down  a  sob.  His  tone  was  so  odd,  so 
remote. 

456 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Many  people  have  done  such  things.  I  know  they 
have.  Why — why,  it  was  only  meant — as  a  skit — to 
make  people  laugh!     There's  no  harm  in  it,  William." 

Ashe,  without  speaking,  took  up  the  book  and  looked 
back  at  certain  pages,  which  he  seemed  to  have  marked, 
Kitty's  feeling  as  she  watched  him  was  the  feeling  of  the 
condemned  culprit,  held  dumb  and  strangled  in  the  grip 
of  his  own  sense  of  justice,  and  yet  passionately  con- 
scious how  much  more  he  could  say  for  himself  than 
anybody  is  ever  likely  to  say  for  him, 

"When  did  you  have  the  first  idea  of  this  book, 
Kitty?" 

"About  a  year  ago,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"In  October?     At  Haggart?" 

Kitty  nodded. 

Ashe  thought.  Her  admission  took  him  back  to  the 
autumn  weeks  at  Haggart,  after  the  Cliffe  crisis  and  the 
rearrangement  of  the  ministry  in  the  July  of  that  year. 
He  well  remembered  that  those  weeks  had  been  weeks 
of  special  happiness  for  both  of  them.  Afterwards,  the 
winter  had  brought  many  renewed  qualms  and  vexa- 
tions. But  in  that  period,  between  the  storms  of  the 
session  and  Kitty's  escapades  in  the  hunting -field, 
m.emory  recalled  a  tender,  melting  time — a  time  rich  in 
hidden  and  exquisite  hours,  when  with  Kitty  on  his 
breast,  lip  to  lip  and  heart  to  heart,  he  had  reaped,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  the  fruits  of  that  indulgence  which, 
as  he  knew,  his  mother  scorned.  And  at  that  very 
moment,  behind  his  back,  out  of  his  sight,  she  had  be- 
gun this  atrociovis  thing. 

He  looked  at  her  again— the  bitterness  almost  at  his 
lips,  almost  beyond  his  control. 
'"  457 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"I  wish  I  knew  v^hat  could  have  been  your  possible 
object  in  writing  it?" 

She  sat  up  and  confronted  him.  The  color  flamed 
back  again  into  her  pale  cheeks. 

"You  know  I  told  you — when  we  had  that  talk  in 
London — that  I  wanted  to  write.  I  thought  it  would  be 
good  for  me — would  take  my  thoughts  off — well,  what 
had  happened.  And  I  began  to  write  this— and  it 
amused  me  to  find  I  could  do  it — and  I  suppose  I  got 
carried  away.  I  loved  describing  you,  and  glorifying 
you — and  I  loved  making  caricatures  of  Lady  Parham 
— and  all  the  people  I  hated.  I  used  to  work  at  it 
whenever  you  were  away — or  I  was  dull  and  there  was 
nothing  to  do. 

"Did  it  never  occur  to  you,"  said  Ashe,  interrupting, 
"that  it  might  get  you — get  us  both — into  trouble,  and 
that  you  ought  to  tell  me?" 

She  wavered. 

"No!"  she  said,  at  last.  "I  never  did  mean  to  tell 
you,  while  I  was  writing  it.  You  know  I  don't  tell 
lies,  William!  The  real  fact  is,  I  was  afraid  you'd 
stop  it." 

"Good  God!"  He  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  sound 
of  amazement,  then  thrust  them  again  into  his  pockets 
and  began  to  pace  up  and  down. 

"  But  then" — she  resumed — "  I  thought  you'd  soon  get 
over  it,  and  that  it  was  funny — and  everybody  would 
laugh — and  you'd  laugh — and  there  would  be  an  end 
of  it." 

He  turned  and  stared  at  her.  "Frankly,  Kitty — I 
don't  understand  what  you  can  be  made  of!  You 
imagined  that  that  sketch  of  Lord  Parham" — he  struck 

458 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

the  open  page — "a  sketch' written  by  my  ivife,  describ- 
ing my  official  chief — when  he  was  my  guest — ^under 
my  own  roof— with  all  sorts  of  details  of  the  most  inti- 
mate and  offensive  kind — mocking  his  speech — his  man- 
ners— his  little  personal  ways— charging  him  with  being 
the  corrupt  tool  of  Lady  Parham,  disloyal  to  his  col- 
leagues, a  man  not  to  be  trusted — and  justifying  all 
this  by  a  sort  of  evidence  that  you  could  only  have 
got  as  my  wife  and  Lord  Parham's  hostess — you  actually 
supposed  that  you  could  write  and  publish  that ! — with- 
out in  the  first  place  its  being  plain  to  every  Tom,  Dick, 
and  Harry  that  you  had  written  it — and  in  the  next, 
without  making  it  impossible  for  your  husband  to  re- 
main a  colleague  of  the  man  you  had  treated  in  such  a 
way?  Kitty! — you  are  not  a  stupid  woman!  Do  you 
really  mean  to  say  that  you  could  write  and  publish 
this  book  without  knowing  that  you  were  doing  a  wrong 
action  —  which,  so  far  from  serving  me,  could  only 
damage  my  career  irreparably?  Did  nothing — did  no 
one  warn  you — if  you  were  determined  to  keep  such  a 
secret  from  your  husband,  whom  it  most  concerned?" 

He  had  come  to  stand  beside  her,  both  hands  on  the 
back  of  a  chair  —  stooping  forward  to  emphasize  his 
words — the  lines  of  his  fine  face  and  noble  brow  con- 
tracted by  anger  and  pain. 

"Mr.  Darrell  warned  me,"  said  Kitty,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  though  those  imperious  eyes  compelled  the  truth 
from  her — "but  of  course  I  didn't  believe  him." 

"  Darrell!"  cried  Ashe,  in  amazement — "  Darrell!  You 
confided  in  him?" 

"I  told  him  all  about  it.  It  was  he  who  took  it  to  a 
publisher." 

459 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"Hound!"  said  Ashe,  between  his  teeth.  "So  tliat 
was  his  revenge." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  blame  him  too  much,"  said  Kitty, 
proudly,  not  understanding  the  remark.  "  He  wrote  to 
me  not  long  ago  to  say  it  was  horribly  unwise — and  that 
he  washed  his  hands  of  it." 

"Ay — when  he'd  done  the  deed!  When  did  you 
show  it  him?"  said  Ashe,  impetuously. 

"At  Haggart — in  August." 

"£"/  tu,  Bmte !"  said  Ashe,  turning  away.  "Well, 
that's  done  with.  Now  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  face 
the  music.  I  go  home.  Whatever  can  be  done  to  with- 
draw the  book  from  circulation  I  shall,  of  course,  do; 
but  I  gather  from  this  precious  letter" — he  held  up  the 
note  which  had  been  enclosed  in  the  parcel  —  "that 
some  thousands  of  copies  have  already  been  ordered  by 
the  booksellers,  and  a  few  distributed  to  '  persons  in 
high  places.'  " 

"  William,"  she  said,  in  despair,  catching  his  arm 
again— "listen!  I  offered  the  man  two  hundred  pounds 
only  yesterday  to  stop  it." 

Ashe  laughed. 

"What  did  he  reply?" 

"He  said  it  was  impossible.  Fifty  copies  had  been 
already  issued. 

"The  review  copies,  no  doubt  By  next  week  there 
will  be,  I  should  say,  five  thousand  in  the  shops.  Your 
man  understands  his  business,  Kitty.  This  is  the  kind 
of  pxifi  preliminary  he  has  been  scattering  about." 

And  with  sparkling  eyes  he  handed  to  her  a  printed 
slip  containing  an  outline  of  the  book  for  the  informa- 
tion of  the  booksellers. 

460 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

It  drew  attention  to  the  extraordinary  interest  of  the 
production  as  a  painting  of  the  upper  class  by  the  hand 
of  one  belonging  to  its  inmost  circle.  "People  of  the 
highest  social  and  political  importance  will  be  recog- 
nized at  once;  the  writer  handles  cabinet  ministers  and 
their  wives  with  equal  freedom,  and  with  a  touch  be- 
traying the  closest  and  most  intimate  knowledge.  De- 
tails hitherto  quite  unknown  to  the  public  of  ministerial 
combinations  and  intrigues — especially  of  the  feminine 
influences  involved — will  be  found  here  in  their  lightest 
and  most  amusing  form.  A  certain  famous  fancy  ball 
will  be  identified  without  difficulty.  Scathing  as  some 
of  the  portraits  are,  the  writer  is  by  no  means  merely 
cynical.  The  central  figure  of  the  book  is  a  young  and 
rising  statesman,  whose  aim  and  hopes  are  touched  with 
a  loving  hand — the  charm  of  the  portrait  being  only 
equalled  by  the  venom  with  which  the  writer  assails 
those  who  have  thwarted  or  injured  his  hero.  But  our 
advice  is  simply — '  Buy  and  Read!'  Conjecture  will  run 
wild  about  the  writer.  All  we  can  say  is  that  the  most 
romantic  or  interesting  surmise  that  can  possibly  be 
formed  will  fall  far  short  of  the  realitv," 

"The  beast  is  a  shrewd  beast!"  said  Ashe,  as  he  raised 
himself  from  the  stooping  position  in  which  he  had  been 
following  the  sentences  over  Kitty's  shoulder.  "He 
knows  that  the  public  will  rush  for  his  wares!  How 
much  money  did  he  offer  you,  Kitty?" 

He  turned  sharply  on  his  heel  to  wait  for  her  reply. 

"A  hundred  pounds,"  said  Kitty,  almost  inaudibly — 
"and  a  hundred  more  if  five  thousand  sold."  She  had 
returned  again  to  her  crouching  attitude  over  the  fire. 

"Generous! — upon  my  word!"  said  Ashe,  scornfully 
461 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

turning  over  the  two  thick-leaved,  loosely  printed  Mudie 
volumes.  "A  guinea  to  the  public,  I  suppose — fifteen 
•shillings  to  the  trade.  Darrell  didn't  exactly  advise  you 
to  advantage,  Kitty." 

Kitty  kept  silence.  The  sarcastic  violence  of  his  tone 
fell  on  her  like  a  blow.  She  seenled  to  shrink  together; 
while  Ashe  resumed  his  walk  to  and  fro. 

Presently,  however,  she  looked  up,  to  ask,  in  a  voice 
that  tried  for  steadiness: 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do — exactly — William?" 

"I  shall,  of  course,  buy  up  all  I  can;  I  shall  employ 
some  lawyer  fellow,  and  appeal  to  the  good  feelings  of 
the  newspapers.  There  will  be  no  trouble  with  the 
respectable  ones.  But  some  copies  will  get  out,  and 
some  of  the  Opposition  newspapers  will  make  capital  out 
of  them.  Naturally! — they'd  be  precious  fools  if  they 
didn't." 

A  momentary  hope  sprang  up  in  Kitty. 

"  But  if  you  buy  it  up — and  stop  all  the  papers  that 
matter,"  she  faltered — "  why  should  you  resign,  William  ? 
There  won't  be — such  great  harm  done." 

For  answer  he  opened  the  book,  and  without  speak- 
ing pointed  to  two  passages — the  first,  an  account  full 
of  point  and  malice  of  the  negotiations  between  himself 
and  Lord  Parham  at  the  time  when  he  entered  the  cabi- 
net, the  conditions  he  himself  had  made,  and  the  con- 
fidential comments  of  the  Premier  on  the  men  and  affairs 
of  the  moment. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  night  when  I  told  you  those 
things,.  Kitty?" 

Yes,  Kitty  remembered  well.  It  was  a  night  of  in- 
timate talk  between  man  and  wife,  a  night  when  she 

462 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

had  shown  him  her  sweetest,  tenderest  mood,  and  he — 
incorrigible  optimist! — had  persuaded  himself  that  she 
was  growing  as  wise  as  she  was  lovely. 

Her  lip  trembled.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  second — 
to  the  pitiless  picture  of  Lord  Parham  at  Haggart. 

"You  wrote  that — when  he  was  under  our  roof — 
there  by  our  pressing  invitation!  You  couldn't  have 
written  it — unless  he  had  so  put  himself  in  your  power. 
A  wandering  Arab,  Kitty,  will  do  no  harm  to  the  man 
who  has  eaten  and  drunk  in  his  tent!" 

She  looked  up,  and  as  she  read  his  face  she  under- 
stood at  last  how  what  she  had  done  had  outraged  in 
him  all  the  natural  and  all  the  inherited  instincts  of  a 
generous  and  fastidious  nature.  The  "great  gentle- 
man," so  strong  in  him  as  in  all  the  best  of  English 
statesmen,  whether  they  spring  from  the  classes  or  the 
masses,  was  up  in  arms. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry.  "William,  you 
can't  give  up  politics!     It  would  make  you  miserable." 

"That  can't  be  helped.  And  I  couldn't  go  on  like 
this,  Kitty — even  if  this  affair  of  the  book  could  be 
patched  up.     The  strain's  too  great." 

They  were  but  a  yard  apart,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  be 
looking  at  him  across  a  gulf. 

"You  have  been  so  happy  in  your  work!"  This  time 
the  sob  escaped  her. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  talk  about  that,"  he  said,  abruptly, 
as  he  walked  away.  "There'll  be  a  certain  relief  in 
giving  up  the  impossible.  I'll  go  back  to  my  books. 
We  can  travel,  I  suppose,  and  put  politics  out  of  our 
heads." 

"But — you  won't  resign  your  seat?" 
463 


The    Marriacjc    of    William    Ashe 

"No,"  he  said,  after  a  pause — "no.  As  far  as  I  can 
see  at  present,  1  sha'n't  resign  my  seat,  though  my  con- 
stituents, of  course,  will  be  very  sick.  But  I  doubt 
whether  I  shall  stand  again." 

Every  phrase  fell  as  though  with  a  thud  on  Kitty's 
ear.  It  was  the  wreck  of  a  man's  life,  and  she  had 
done  it. 

"Shall  you — shall  you  go  and  see  Lord  Parham  ?" 
she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"I  shall  write  to  him  first.  I  imagine" — he  pointed 
to  the  letter  lying  on  the  table — "that  creature  has  al- 
ready sent  him  the  book.  Then  later  I  daresay  I  shall 
see  him." 

She  looked  up. 

"  If  I  wrote  and  told  him  it  was  all  my  doing,  William  ? 
— ^if  I  grovelled  to  him?" 

"The  responsibility  is  mine,"  he  said,  sternly.  "I 
had  no  business  to  tell  even  you  the  things  printed  there, 
I  told  them  at  my  own  risk.  If  anything  I  say  has  any 
weight  with  you,  Kitty,  you  will  write  nothing." 

She  spread  out  her  hands  to  the  fire  again,  and  he 
heard  her  say,  as  though  to  herself: 

"The  thing  is — the  awful  thing  is,  that  I'm  mad — I 
must  be  mad.  I  never  thought  of  all  this  when  I  was 
writing  it.  I  wrote  it  in  a  kind  of  dream.  In  the  first 
place,  I  wanted  to  glorif}^  you—" 

He  broke  into  an  exclamation. 

"Your  taste,  Kitty! — where  was  your  taste?  That  a 
wife  should  praise  a  husband  in  public!  You  could  only 
make  us  both  laughing-stocks." 

His  handsome  features  quivered  a  little.  He  felt  this 
part  of  it  the  most  galling,  the  most  humiliating  of  all; 

464 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

and  she  understood.  In  his  eyes  she  had  shown  herself 
not  only  reckless  and  treacherous,  but  indelicate,  vulgar, 
capable  of  besmirching  the  most  sacred  and  intimate  of 
relations. 

She  rose  from  her  seat. 

"I  must  go  and  take  my  things  off,"  she  said,  in  "a 
vaguQ  voice,"  and  as  she  moved  she  tottered  a  little.  He 
turned  to  look  at  her.  Amid  his  own  crushing  sense  of 
defeat  and  catastrophe,  his  natural  and  righteous  in- 
dignation, he  remembered  that  she  had  been  ill — he 
remembered  their  child.  But  whether  from  the  excite- 
ment, first  of  the  meeting  in  the  Vercelli  palace,  and 
now  of  this  scene — or  merely  from  the  heat  of  the  fire 
over  which  she  had  been  hanging,  her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  her  eyes  blazed.  Her  beauty  had  never  been 
more  evident;  but  it  made  little  appeal  to  him;  it  was 
the  wild,  ungovernable  beauty  from  which  he  had  suf- 
fered. He  saw  that  she  was  excited,  but  there  was  an 
air  also  of  returning  physical  vigor ;  and  the  nascent  feel- 
ing which  might  have  been  strengthened  by  pallor  and 
prostration  died  away. 

Kitty  moved  as  though  to  pass  him  and  go  to  her 
room,  which  opened  out  of  the  salon.  But  as  she  neared 
him  she  suddenly  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"William! — William!  don't  do  it! — don't  resign!  Let 
me  apologize!" 

He  was  angered  by  her  persistence,  and  merely  said, 
coldly: 

"I  have  given  you  my  reasons,  Kitty,  why  such  a 
course  is  impossible." 

"And — and  you  start  to-morrow  morning?" 

"By  the  early  train.     Please  let  me  go,  Kitty.    There 
465 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

are  many  things  to  arrange.  I  must  order  the  gon- 
dola, and  see  if  the  people  here  can  cash  me  a 
check." 

"You  mean — to  leave  me  alone?"  The  words  had  a 
curious  emphasis. 

"I  had  a  few  words  with  Miss  French  before  you 
came  in.  The  packet  arrived  by  the  evening  post,  and 
seeing  that  it  was  books — for  you — I  opened  it.  After 
about  an  hour  " — he  turned  and  walked  away  again — 
"I  saw  my  bearings.  Then  I  called  Miss  French,  told 
her  I  should  have  to  go  to-morrow,  and  asked  her  how 
long  she  could  stay  with  you." 

"William!"  cried  Kitty  again,  leaning  heavily  on  the 
table  beside  her — "don't  go! — don't  leave  me!" 

His  face  darkened. 

"So  you  would  prevent  me  from  taking  the  only 
honorable,  the  only  decent  way  out  of  this  thing  that 
remains  to  me?" 

She  made  no  immediate  reply.  She  stood — wrapped 
apparently  in  painful  abstraction — a  creature  lovely  and 
distraught.  The  masses  of  her  fair  hair  loosened  by  the 
breeze  on  the  canal  had  fallen  about  her  cheeks  and 
shoulders;  her  black  hat  framed  the  white  brow  and 
large,  feverish  eyes;  and  the  sable  cape  she  had  worn  in 
the  gondola  had  slipped  down  over  the  thin,  sloping 
shoulders,  revealing  the  young  figure  and  the  slender 
waist.  She  might  have  been  a  child  of  seventeen, 
grieving  over  the  death  of  her  goldfinch. 

Ashe  gathered  together  his  official  letters  and  papers, 
found  his  check-book,  and  began  to  write.  While  he 
wrote  he  explained  that  Miss  French  could  keep  her 
company  at  least  another  fortnight,  that  he  could  leave 

466 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

with  them  four  or  five  circular  notes  for  immediate  ex- 
penses, and  would  send  more  from  home  directly  he 
arrived. 

In  the  middle  of  his  directions  Kitty  once  more  ap- 
pealed to  him  in  a  passionate,  muffled  voice  not  to  go. 
This  time  he  lost  his  temper,  and  without  answering  her 
he  hastily  left  the  room  to  arrange  his  packing  with  his 
valet. 

When  he  returned  to  the  saloit  Kitty  was  not  there. 
He  and  Miss  French — who  knew  only  that  something 
tragic  had  happened  in  which  Kitty  was  concerned — 
kept  up  a  fragmentary  conversation  till  dinner  was  an- 
novmced  and  Kitty  entered.  She  had  evidently  been 
weeping,  but  with  powder  and  rouge  she  had  tried  to 
conceal  the  traces  of  her  tears;  and  at  dinner  she  sat 
silent,  hardly  answering  when  Margaret  French  spoke 
to  her. 

After  dinner  Ashe  went  out  with  his  cigar  towards  the 
Piazza.  He  was  in  a  smarting,  dazed  state,  beginning, 
however,  to  realize  the  blow  more  than  he  had  done  at 
first.  He  believed  that  Parham  himself  would  not  be 
at  all  sorry  to  be  rid  of  him.  He  and  his  friends  formed 
a  powerful  group  both  in  the  cabinet  and  out  of  it.  But 
they  were  forcing  the  pace,  and  the  elements  of  resistance 
and  reaction  were  strong.  He  pictured  the  dismay  of 
his  friends,  the  possible  breakdown  of  the  reforming 
party.  Of  course  they  might  so  stand  by  him — and  the 
suppression  of  the  book  might  be  so  complete — 

At  this  moment  he  caught  sight  of  a  newspaper  con- 
tents bill  displayed  at  the  door  of  the  only  shop  in  the 
Piazza  which  sold  English  newspapers.     One  of  the  lines 

467 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ran,  "Anonymous  attack  on  the  Premier."  He  started, 
went  in  and  bought  the  paper.  There,  in  the  "London 
Topics"  column,  was  the  following  paragraph: 

"A  string  of  extracts  from  a  forthcoming  book,  ac- 
companied by  a  somewhat  startling  publisher's  state- 
ment, has  lately  been  sent  round  to  the  press.  We  are 
asked  not  to  print  them  before  the  day  of  publication, 
but  they  have  already  roused  much  attention,  if  not  ex- 
citement. They  certainly  contain  a  very  gross  attack 
on  the  Prime  Minister,  based  apparently  on  first-hand 
information,  and  involving  indiscretions  personal  and 
political  of  an  unusually  serious  character.  The  wife  of 
a  cabinet  minister  is  freely  named  as  the  writer,  and 
even  if  no  violation  of  cabinet  secrecy  is  concerned,  it 
is  clear  that  the  book  outrages  the  confidential  relations 
which  ought  to  subsist  between  a  Premier  and  his  col- 
leagues, if  government  on  our  English  system  is  to  be 
satisfactorily  carried  on.  The  statements  it  makes  with 
every  appearance  of  authority  both  as  to  the  relations 
between  Lord  Parham  and  some  of  the  most  important 
members  of  his  cabinet,  and  as  to  the  Premier's  inten- 
tions with  regard  to  one  or  two  of  the  most  vital  ques- 
tions now  before  the  country,  are  calculated  seriously 
to  embarrass  the  government.  We  fear  the  book  will 
have  a  veritable  succes  de  scandale." 

"That  fellow  at  least  has  done  his  best  to  kick  the 
ball,  damn  him!"  thought  Ashe,  with  contempt,  as  he 
thrust  the  paper  into  his  pocket. 

It  was  no  more  than  he  expected ;  but  it  put  an  end  to 
all  thoughts  of  a  more  hopeful  kind.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  Piazza  smoking,  till  midnight,  counting  the 
hours  till  he  could  reach  London,  and  revolving  the 

468 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

phrases  of  a  telegram  to  be  sent  to  his  solicitor  before 
starting. 

Kitty  made  no  sign  or  sound  when  he  entered  her 
room.  Her  fair  head  was  turned  away  from  him,  and  all 
was  dark.  He  could  hardly  believe  that  she  was  asleep; 
but  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to  accept  her  pretence  of  it,  and 
to  escape  all  further  conversation.  He  himself  slept  but 
little.  The  mere  profundity  of  the  Venetian  silence 
teased  him;  it  reminded  him  how  far  he  was  from  home. 

Two  images  pursued  him — of  Kitty  writing  the  book, 
while  he  was  away  electioneering  or  toiling  at  his  new 
office — and  then,  of  his  returns  to  Haggart — tired  or 
triumphant — on  many  a  winter  evening,  of  her  glad  rush 
into  his  arms,  her  sparkling  face  on  his  breast. 

Or  again,  he  conjured  up  the  scene  when  the  MS. 
had  been  shown  to  Darrell — his  pretence  of  disapproval, 
his  sham  warnings,  and  the  smile  on  his  sallow  face 
as  he  walked  off  with  it.  Ashe  looked  back  to  the 
early  days  of  his  friendship  with  Darrell,  when  he,  Ashe, 
was  one  of  the  leaders  at  Eton,  popular  with  the  masters 
in  spite  of  his  incorrigible  idleness,  and  popular  with  the 
boys  because  of  his  bodily  prowess,  and  Darrell  had 
been  a  small,  sickly,  bullied  colleger.  Scene  after  scene 
recurred  to  him,  from  their  later  relations  at  Oxford  also. 
There  was  a  kind  of  deliberation  in  the  way  in  which  he 
forced  his  thoughts  into  this  channel ;  it  made  an  outlet 
for  a  fierce  bitterness  of  spirit,  which  some  imperious 
instinct  forbade  him  to  spend  on  Kitty. 

He  dozed  in  the  later  hours  of  the  night,  and  was 
roused  by  something  touching  his  hand,  which  lay  outside 
the  bedclothes.  Again  the  little  head!  —  and  the  soft 
curls.     Kitty  was  there — crouched  beside  him — weep- 

469- 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ing.  There  flashed  into  his  mind  an  image  of  the  night 
in  London  when  she  had  come  to  him  thus;  and  un- 
welcome as  the  whole  remembrance  was,  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  sudden  swelling  wave  of  pity  and  passion. 
What  if  he  sprang  up,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  forgave 
her,  and  bade  the  world  go  hang! 

No!  The  impulse  passed,  and  in  his  turn  he  feigned 
sleep.  The  thought  of  her  long  deceit,  of  the  selfish 
wilfulness  wherewith  she  had  requited  deep  love  and 
easy  trust,  was  too  much;  it  seared  his  heart.  And 
there  was  another  and  a  subtler  influence.  To  have 
forgiven  so  easily  would  have  seemed  treachery  to  those 
high  ambitions  and  ideals  from  which — as  he  thought, 
only  too  certainly — she  had  now  cut  him  off.  It  was 
part  of  his  surviving  youth  that  the  catastrophe  seemed 
to  him  so  absolute.  Any  thought  of  the  fresh  efforts 
which  would  be  necessary  for  the  reconquering  of  his 
position  was  no  less  sickening  to  him  than  that  of  the 
immediate  discomforts  and  humiliations  to  be  undergone. 
He  would  go  back  to  books  and  amusement;  and  in  the 
idling  of  the  future  there  would  be  plenty  of  time  for 
love-making. 

In  the  morning,  when  all  preparations  were  made, 
the  gondoliers  waiting  below,  Ashe's  telegram  sent,  and 
the  circular  notes  handed  over  to  Margaret  French,  who 
had  discreetly  left  the  room,  William  approached  his 
wife. 

"  Good-bye!"  said  Kitty,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  with 
a  strange  look  and  smile. 

Ashe,  however,  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her — 
against  her  will.     "  I'll  do  my  best,  Kitty,"  he  said,  in  a 

470 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

would-be  cheery  voice — "to  pull  us  through.  Perhaps — 
I  don't  know! — things  may  turn  out  better  than  I  think. 
Good-bye.  Take  care  of  yourself.  I'll  write,  of  course. 
Don't  hurry  home.  You'll  want  a  fortnight  or  three 
weeks  yet." 

Kitty  said  not  a  word,  and  in  another  minute  he  was 
gone.  The  Italian  servants  congregated  below  at  the 
water-gate  sent  laughing  "A  rivederlas  "  after  the  hand- 
some, good-tempered  Englishman,  whom  they  liked  and 
regretted ;  the  gondola  moved  off ;  Kitty  heard  the  plash 
of  the  water.     But  she  held  back  from  the  window. 

Half-way  to  the  bend  of  the  canal  beyond  the  Acca- 
demia,  Ashe  turned  and  gave  a  long  look  at  the  bal- 
cony. No  one  was  there.  But  just  as  the  gondola  was 
passing  out  of  sight,  Kitty  slipped  onto  the  balcony. 
She  could  see  only  the  figure  of  Piero,  the  gondolier,  and 
in  another  second  the  boat  was  gone.  She  stayed  there 
for  many  minutes,  clinging  to  the  balustrade  and  star- 
ing, as  it  seemed,  at  the  sparkle  of  autumnal  sun  which 
danced  on  the  green  water  and  on  the  red  palace  to  her 
right. 

All  the  morning  Kitty  on  her  sofa  pretended  to  write 
letters.  Margaret  French,  working  or  reading  behind 
her,  knew  that  she  scarcely  got  through  a  single  note, 
that  her  pen  lay  idle  on  the  paper,  while  her  eyes  ab- 
sently watched  the  palace  windows  on  the  other  side 
of  the  canal.  Miss  French  was  quite  certain  that  some 
tragic  cause  of  difference  between  the  husband  and  wife 
had  arisen.  Kitty,  the  indiscreet,  had  for  once  kept  her 
own  counsel  about  the  book,  and  Ashe  had  with  his  own 
hands  packed  away  the  volumes  which  had  arrived  the 

471 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

night  before;  so  that  she  could  only  guess,  and  from  that 
delicacy  of  feeling  restrained  her  as  much  as  possible. 

Once  or  twice  Kitty  seemed  on  the  point  of  unbur- 
dening herself.  Then  overmastering  tears  would  threat- 
en ;  she  would  break  off  and  begin  to  write.  At  luncheon 
her  look  alarmed  Miss  French,  so  white  was  the  little 
face,  so  large  and  restless  the  eyes.  Ought  Mr.  Ashe  to 
have  left  her,  and  left  her  apparently  in  anger?  No 
doubt  he  thought  her  much  better.  But  Margaret  re- 
membered the  worst  days  of  her  illness,  the  anxious 
looks  of  the  doctors,  and  the  anguish  that  Kitty  had 
suffered  in  the  first  weeks  after  her  child's  death.  She 
seemed  now,  indeed,  to  have  forgotten  little  Harry,  so 
far  as  outward  expression  went;  but  who  could  tell  what 
was  passing  in  her  strange,  unstable  mind  ?  And  it 
often  seemed  to  Margaret  that  the  signs  of  the  past 
summer  were  stamped  on  her  indelibly,  for  those  who 
had  eyes  to  see. 

Was  it  the  perception  of  this  pity  beside  her  that 
drove  Kitty  to  solitude  and  flight?  At  any  rate,  she 
said  after  luncheon  that  she  would  go  to  Madame 
d'Estr^es,  and  did  not  ask  Miss  French  to  accompany 
her. 

She  set  out  accordingly  with  the  two  gondoliers.  But 
she  had  hardly  passed  the  Accademia  before  she  bid 
her  men  take  a  cross-cut  to  the  Giudecca.  On  these 
wide  waters,  with  their  fresher  air  and  fuller  sunshine,  a 
certain  physical  comfort  seemed  to  breathe  upon  her. 

"Piero,  it  is  not  rough!  Can  we  go  to  the  Lido?" 
she  asked  the  gondolier  behind  her. 

Piero,  who  was  all  smiles  and  complaisance,  as  well 
he  might  be  with  a  lady  who  scattered  lire  as  freely  as 

472 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Kitty  did,  turned  the  boat  at  once  for  that  channel  "  Del 
Orfano"  where  the  bones  of  the  vanquished  dead  lie 
deep  amid  the  ooze. 

They  passed  San  Giorgio,  and  were  soon  among  the 
piles  and  sand -banks  of  the  lagoon.  Kitty  sat  in  a 
dream  which  blotted  the  sunshine  from  the  water.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  a  dead  creature,  floating  in 
a  dead  world.  William  had  ceased  to  love  her.  She 
had  wrecked  his  career  and  destroyed  her  own  happi- 
ness. Her  child  had  been  taken  from  her.  Lady  Tran- 
more's  affection  had  been  long  since  alienated.  Her 
own  mother  was  nothing  to  her;  and  her  friends  in 
society,  like  Madeleine  Alcot,  would  only  laugh  and  gloat 
over  the  scandal  of  the  book. 

No — everything  was  finished!  As  her  fingers  hanging 
over  the  side  of  the  gondola  felt  the  touch  of  the  water, 
her  morbid  fancy,  incredibly  quick  and  keen,  fancied 
herself  drowned,  or  poisoned — lying  somehow  white  and 
cold  on  a  bed  where  William  might  see  and  forgive  her. 

Then  with  a  start  of  memory  which  brought  the  blood 
rushing  to  her  face,  she  thought  of  Cliffe  standing  beside 
the  door  of  the  great  hall  in  the  VercelH  palace — she 
seemed  to  be  looking  again  into  those  deep,  expressive 
e^T-es,  held  by  the  irony  and  the  passion  with  which  they 
were  infused.  Had  the  passion  any  reference  to  her? — 
or  was  it  merely  part  of  the  man's  nature,  as  inseparable 
from  it  as  flame  from  the  volcano  ?  If  William  had  cast 
her  off,  was  there  still  one  man — wild  and  bad,  indeed, 
like  herself,  but  poet  and  hero  nevertheless — who  loved 
her? 

She  did  not  much  believe  it;  but  still  the  possibility 
of  it  lured  her,  like  some  dark  gulf  that  promised  her 
»*  473 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

oblivion   from   this  pain — pain   which   tortured   one   so 
impatient  of  distress,  so  hungry  for  pleasure  and  praise. 

In  those  days  the  Lido  was  still  a  noble  and  solitary 
shore,  without  the  degradations  of  to-day. 

Kitty  walked  fast  and  furiously  across  the  sandy  road , 
and  over  the  shingles,  turning,  when  she  reached  the 
firm  sand,  southward  towards  Malamocco.  It  was 
between  four  and  five,  and  the  autumn  afternoon  was 
fast  declining.  A  fresh  breeze  was  on  the  sea,  and  the 
short  waves,  intensely  blue  under  a  wide,  clear  heaven, 
broke  in  dazzling  foam  on  the  red -brown  sand. 

She  seemed  to  be  alone  between  sea  and  sky,  save 
for  two  figures  approaching  from  the  south — a  fisher-boy 
with  a  shrimping-net  and  a  man  walking  bareheaded. 
She  noticed  them  idly.  A  mirage  of  sun  was  between 
her  and  them,  and  the  agony  of  remorse  and  despair 
which  held  her  blunted  all  perceptions. 

Thus  it  was  that  not  till  she  was  close  upon  him  did 
her  dazzled  sight  recognize  Geoffrey  Cliffe. 

He  saw  her  first,  and  stopped  in  motionless  astonish- 
ment on  the  edge  of  the  sand.  She  almost  ran  against 
him,  when  his  voice  arrested  her. 

"Lady  Kitty!" 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  breast,  wavered,  and  came  to 
a  stand-still.  He  saw  a  little  figure  in  black  between 
him  and  those  "gorgeous  towers  and  cloud-capped 
palaces"  of  Alpine  snow,  which  dimly  closed  in  the 
north;  and  beneath  the  drooping  hat  a  face  even  more 
changed  and  tragic  than  that  which  had  haunted  him 
since  their  meeting  of  the  day  before. 

" How  do  you  do?"  she  said,  mechanically,  and  would 

474 


SHE     THOUGHT     OF     CLIFFE     STAXDIN'G     BESIDE     THE     DOOR    OF 
THE    GREAT    HAM." 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

have  passed  him.  But  he  stood  in  her  path.  As  he 
stared  at  her  an  impulse  of  rage  ran  through  him,  re- 
senting the  wreck  of  anything  so  beautiful- — rage  against 
Ashe,  who  must  surely  be  somehow  responsible. 

"Aren't  you  wandering  too  far,  Lady  Kitty?"  His 
voice  shook  under  the  restraint  he  put  upon  it.  "You 
seem  tired — very  tired — and  you  are  perhaps  farther 
from  your  gondola  than  you  think." 

"I  am  not  tired." 

He  hesitated. 

"Might  I  walk  with  you  a  little,  or  do  you  forbid 
me?" 

She  said  nothing,  but  walked  on.  He  turned  and 
accompanied  her.  One  or  two  questions  that  he  put  to 
her  —  Had  she  companions?  —  Where  had  she  left  her 
gondola? — remained  unanswered.  He  studied  her  face, 
and  at  last  he  laid  a  strong  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"Sit  down.     You  are  not  fit  for  any  more  walking." 

He  drew  her  towards  some  logs  of  driftwood  on  the 
upper  sand,  and  she  sank  down  upon  them.  He  found 
a  place  beside  her. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  he  said,  abruptly, 
with  a  harsh  authority.     "You  are  in  trouble." 

A  tremor  shook  her — as  of  the  prisoner  who  feels  on 
his  limbs  the  first  touch  of  the  fetter. 

"No,  no!"  she  said,  trying  to  rise;  "it  is  nothing. 
I — I  didn't  know  it  was  so  far.     I  must  go  home." 

His  hand  held  her. 

"Kitty!" 

"Yes."     Her  voice  was  scarcely  audible. 

"Tell  me  what  hurts  you!  Tell  me  why  you  are  here, 
alone,  with  a  face  like  that!     Don't  be  afraid  of  me! 

475 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

Could  I  lift  a  finger  to  harm  a  mother  that  has  lost  her 
child?  Give  me  your  hands."  He  gathered  both  hers 
into  the  warm  shelter  of  his  own.  "Look  at  me — trust 
me!  My  heart  has  grown,  Kitty,  since  you  knew  me 
last.  It  has  taken  into  itself  so  many  griefs — so  many 
deaths.     Tell  me  your  griefs,  poor  child! — tell  me!" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hands — most  tenderly, 
most  gravely. 

Tears  rushed  into  her  eyes.  The  wild  emotions  that 
were  her  being  were  roused  beyond  control.  Bending 
towards  him  she  began  to  pour  out,  first  brokenly,  then 
in  a  torrent,  the  wretched,  incoherent  story,  of  which  the 
mere  telling,  in  such  an  ear,  meant  new  treachery  to 
William  and  new  ruin  for  herself. 


XXII 

ON  a  certain  cloudy  afternoon,  some  ten  days  later, 
a  fishing-boat,  with  a  patched  orange  sail,  might 
have  been  seen  scudding  under  a  light  northwesterly 
breeze  through  the  channels  which  connect  the  island 
of  San  Francesco  with  the  more  easterly  stretches  of 
the  Venetian  lagoon.  The  boat  presently  neared  the 
shore  of  one  of  the  cultivated  lidi — islands  formed  out 
of  the  silt  of  many  rivers  by  the  travail  of  centuries, 
some  of  them  still  mere  sand  or  mud  banks,  others  cov- 
ered by  vineyards  and  fruit  orchards — which,  with  the 
vnurazzi  or  sea-walls  of  Venice,  stand  sentinel  between 
the  city  and  the  sea.  On  the  lido  along  which  the  boat 
was  coasting,  the  vintage  was  long  since  over  and  the 
fruit  gathered;  the  last  yellow  and  purple  leaves  in  the 
orchards,  "a  pestilent-stricken  multitude,"  were  to-day 
falling  fast  to  earth,  under  the  sighing,  importunate 
wind.  The  air  was  warm;  November  was  at  its  mild- 
est. But  all  color  and  light  were  drowned  in  floatiiig 
mists,  and  darkness  lay  over  the  distant  city.  It  was  one 
of  those  drear  and  ghostly  days  which  may  well  have 
breathed  into  the  soul  of  Shelley  that  superb  vision  of 
the  dead  generations  of  Venice,  rising,  a  phantom  host 
from  the  bosom  of  the  sunset,  and  sweeping  in  "a  rapid 
mask  of  death"  over  the  shadowed  waters  that  saw  the 
birth  and  may  yet  furnish  the  tomb  of  so  vast  a  fame. 

477 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Two  persons  were  in  the  boat — Kitty,  wrapped  i^^ 
sables,  her  straying  hair  held  close  by  a  cap  of  the  same 
fur — and  Geoffrey  Cliffe.  They  had  been  wandering  in 
the  lagoons  all  day,  in  order  to  escape  from  Venice  and 
observers — first  at  Torcello,  then  at  San  Francesco,  and 
now  they  were  ostensibly  coming  home  in  a  wide  sweep 
along  the  northern  lidi  and  tnurazzi,  that  Cliffe  might 
show  his  companion,  from  near  by,  the  Porto  del  Lido, 
that  exit  from  the  lagoons  where  the  salt  lakes  grow  into 
the  sea. 

A  certain  wildness  and  exaltation,  drawn  from  the 
solitudes  around  them  and  from  their  tete-h-tete,  could  be 
read  in  both  the  man  and  the  woman.  Cliffe  watched 
his  companion  incessantly.  As  he  lay  against  the  side  of 
the  boat  at  her  feet,  he  saw  her  framed  in  the  curving 
sides  of  the  stern,  and  could  read  her  changing  expres- 
sions. Not  a  happy  face! — that  he  knew!  A  face  haunt- 
ed by  shadows  from  an  underworld  of  thought — pursuing 
furies  of  remorse  and  fear.  Not  the  less  did  he  triumph 
that  he  had  it  there,  in  his  power;  nor  had  the  flashes 
of  terror  and  wavering  will  which  he  discerned  in  any 
way  diminished  its  beauty. 

"How  long  have  you  known — that  woman?"  Kitty 
asked  him,  suddenly,  after  a  pause  broken  only  by  the 
playing  of  the  wind  with  the  sail. 

Cliffe  laughed. 

"The  Ricci ?     Why  do  you  want  to  know,  madame ?" 

She  made  a  contemptuous  lip. 

"I  knew  her  first,"  said  Cliffe,  "some  years  ago  in 
Milan.  She  was  then  at  La  Scala — walking  on — paid 
for  her  good  looks.  Then  somebody  sent  her  to  Paris 
to  the  Conservatoire,  which  she  only  left  this  spring. 

478 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

This  is  her  first  Italian  engagement.  Her  people  are 
shopkeepers  here — in  the  Merceria — which  helped  her. 
She  is  as  vain  as  a  peacock  and  as  dangerous  as  a  pet 
panther." 

"Dangerous!"  Kitty's  scorn  had  passed  into  her 
voice. 

"Well,  Italy  is  still  the  country  of  the  knife,"  said 
Cliffe,  lightly — "and  I  could  still  hire  a  bravo  or  two — 
in  Venice — if  I  wanted  them." 

"Does  the  Ricci  hire  them?" 

Cliffe  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"She'd  do  it  without  winking,  if  it  suited  her."  Then, 
after  a  pause — "  Do  you  still  wonder  why  I  should  have 
chosen  her  society?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Kitty,  hastily.     "You  told  me." 

"As  much  as  a  friend  cares  to  know?" 

She  nodded,  flushing,  and  dropped  the  subject. 

Cliffe's  mouth  still  smiled,  but  his  eyes  studied  her 
with  a  veiled  and  sinister  intensity. 

"I  have  not  seen  the  lady  for  a  week,"  he  resumed. 
"She  pesters  me  with  notes.  I  promised  to  go  and  see 
her  in  a  new  play  to-morrow  night,  but — " 

"Oh,  go!"  said  Kitty — "by  all  means  go!" 

"'Ruy  Bias'  in  Italian?  I  think  not.  Ah!  did  you 
see  that  gleam  on  the  Campanile? — marvellous!  .  .  . 
Miladi,  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you." 

"  Dites!"  said  Kitty. 

"Did  you  put  me  into  your  book?" 

"Certainly." 

"What  kind  of  things  did  you  say?" 

"The  worst  I  could!" 

"Ah!  How  shall  I  get  a  copy?"  said  Clifife,  musing. 
479 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

She  made  no  answer,  but  she  was  conscious  of  a  sud- 
den movement — was  it  of  terror?  At  the  bottom  of 
her  soul  was  she,  indeed,  afraid  of  the  man  beside  her? 

"By-the-way,"  he  resumed,  "you  promised  to  tell 
me  your  news  of  this  morning.  But  you  haven't  told 
me  a  word!" 

She  turned  away.  She  had  gathered  her  furs  around 
her,  and  her  face  was  almost  hidden  by  them. 

"Nothing  is  settled,"  she  said,  in  a  cold,  reluctant 
voice. 

"  Which  means  that  you  won't  tell  me  anything  more  ?" 

She  was  silent.  Her  lip  had  a  proud  line  which 
piqued  him. 

"You  think  I  am  not  worthy  to  know?" 

Her  eye  gleamed. 

"What  does  it  matter  to  you?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  I  should  have  been  glad  to  hear  that 
all  was  well,  and  Ashe's  mind  at  rest  about  his  pros- 
pects." 

"His  prospects!"  she  repeated,  with  a  scorn  which 
stung.     "How  dare  we  mention  his  name  here  at  all?" 

Cliff e  reddened. 

"I  dare,"  he  said,  calmly. 

Kitty  looked  at  him — a  quivering  defiance  in  face  and 
frame;  then  bent  forward. 

"Would  you  like  to  know — who  is  the  best — the 
noblest — the  handsomest — the  most  generous — the  most 
delightful  man  I  have  ever  met?" 

Each  word  came  out  winged  and  charged  with  a 
strange  intensity  of  passion. 

"•Do  I  ?"  said  Cliffe,  raising  his  eyebrows — "do  I  want 
to  know?" 

480 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Her  look  held  him. 

"My  husband,  WiUiani  Ashe!" 

And  she  fell  back,  flushed  and  breathless,  like  one 
who  throws  out  a  rebel  and  challenging  flag. 

Cliff e  was  silent  a  moment,  observing  her. 

"  Strange!"  he  said,  at  last.  "  It  is  only  when  you  are 
miserable  you  are  kind.  I  could  wish  you  miserable 
again,  chSrie." 

Tone  and  look  broke  into  a  sombre  wildness  before 
which  she  shrank.  Her  own  violence  passed  away.  She 
leaned  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  struggling  with  tears. 

"Then  you  have  your  wish,"  was  her  muffled  answer. 

The  three  bronzed  Venetians,  a  father  and  two  sons, 
who  were  working  the  bragozzo  glanced  curiously  at 
the  pair.  They  were  persuaded  that  these  charterers 
of  their  boat  were  lovers  flying  from  observation,  and 
the  unknown  tongue  did  but  stimulate  guessing. 

Cliffe  raised  himself  impatiently. 

They  were  nearing  a  point  where  the  line  of  murazzi 
they  had  been  following — low  breakwaters  of  great 
strength — swept  away  from  them  outward  and  eastward 
towards  a  distant  opening.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
channel  was  a  low  line  of  shore,  broadening  into  the 
Lido  proper,  with  its  scattered  houses  and  churches, 
and  soon  lost  in  the  mist  as  it  stretched  towards  the 
south. 

"Ecco! — il  Porto  del  Lido!"  said  the  older  boatman, 
pointing  far  away  to  a  line  of  deeper  color  beneath  a 
dark  and  lowering  sky. 

Kitty  bent  over  the  side  of  the  boat  staring  towards 
the  dim  spot  he  showed  her — where  was  the  mouth  of  the 
sea. 

481 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Kitty!"  said  Cliffc's  voice  beside  her,  hoarse  and 
hurried — "one  word,  and  I  tell  these  fellows  to  set  their 
helm  for  Trieste.  This  boat  will  carry  us  well — and  the 
wind  is  with  us." 

She  turned  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"And  then?" 

"Then?  We'll  think  it  out  together,  Kitty— to- 
gether!" He  bent  his  lips  to  her  hand,  bending  so  as  to 
conceal  the  action  from  the  sailors.  But  she  drew  her 
hand  away. 

"You  and  I,"  she  said,  fiercely — "would  tire  of  each 
other  in  a  week!" 

"Have  the  courage  to  try!  No! — you  should  not  tire 
of  me  in  a  week!  I  would  find  ways  to  keep  you  mine, 
Kitty — cradled,  and  comforted,  and  happy." 

"  Happy!"  Her  slight  laugh  was  the  forlornest  thing. 
"Take  me  out  to  sea — and  drop  me  there — with  a  stone 
round  my  neck.     That  might  be  worth  doing — perhaps." 

He  surveyed  her  unmoved. 

"Listen,  Kitty!  This  kind  of  thing  can't  go  on  for- 
ever." 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  she  said,  tauntingly. 
"You  ought  to  have  gone  last  week." 

"I  am  not  going,"  he  said,  raising  himself  by  a  sud- 
den movement — "till  you  come  with  me!" 

Kitty  started,  her  eyes  riveted  to  his. 

"And  yet  go  I  will!  Not  even  you  shall  stop  me, 
Kitty.  I'll  take  the  help  I've  gathered  back  to  those 
poor  devils — if  I  die  for  it.  But  you'll  come  with  me — 
you'll  come!" 

She  drew  back  —  trembling  under  an  impression  she 
strove  to  conceal. 

482 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"If  you  will  talk  such  madness,  I  can't  help  it,"  she 
said,  with  shortened  breath. 

"Yes — ^you'll  come!"  he  said,  nodding.  "What  have 
you  to  do  with  Ashe,  Kitty,  any  longer?  You  and  he 
are  already  divided.  You  have  tried  life  together  and 
what  have  you  made  of  it?  You're  not  fit  for  this 
mincing,  tripping  London  life — nor  am  I  ?  And  as  for 
morals — I'll  tell  you  a  strange  thing,  Kitty."  He  Dent 
forward  and  grasped  her  hands  with  a  force  which  hurt 
— from  which  she  could  not  release  herself.  "  I  believe 
— yes,  by  God,  I  believe! — that  I  am  a  better  man  than 
I  was  before  I  started  on  this  adventure.  It's  been 
like  drinking  at  last  at  the  very  source  of  life — living, 
not  talking  about  it.  One  bitter  night  last  February, 
for  instance,  I  helped  a  man — one  of  the  insurgents — ■ 
who  had  taken  to  the  mountains  with  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren— to  carry  his  wife,  a  dying  woman,  over  a  moun- 
tain-pass to  the  only  place  where  she  could  possibly  get 
help  and  shelter.  We  carried  her  on  a  litter,  six  men 
taking  turns.  The  cold  and  the  fatigue  were  such  that 
I  shudder  now  when  I  think  of  it.  Yet  at  the  end  I 
seemed  to  myself  a  man  reborn.  I  was  happier  than  I 
had  ever  been  in  my  life.  Some  mystic  virtue  had 
flowed  into  me.  Among  those  men  and  women,  instead 
of  being  the  selfish  beast  I've  been  all  these  years,  I 
can  forget  myself.  Death  seems  nothing — brotherhood 
— liberty! — everything!     And  yet — " 

His  face  relaxed,  became  ironical,  reflective.  But  he 
held  the  hands  close,  his  grasp  of  them  hidden  by  the 
folds  of  fur  which  hung  about  her. 

"And  yet — T  can  say  to  you  witliout  a  qualm — put 
this  marriage  which  has  already  come  to  naught  behind 

483 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

you — and  come  with  me!  Ashe  cramps  you.  He 
blames  you — you  blame  yourself.  What  reality  has  all 
that?  It  makes  you  miserable — it  wastes  life.  /  ac- 
cept your  nature — I  don't  ask  you  to  be  anything  else 
than  yourself — your  wild,  vain,  adorable  self!  Ashe 
asks  you  to  put  restraint  on  yourself — to  make  painful 
efforts — ^to  be  good  for  his  sake — the  sake  of  something 
outside.  /  say — come  and  look  at  the  elemental  things 
— death  and  battle — hatred,  solitude,  love.  They'll 
sweep  us  out  of  ourselves! — no  need  to  strive  and  cry 
for  it — into  the  great  current  of  the  world's  being- 
bring  us  close  to  the  forces  at  the  root  of  things — the 
forces  which  create — and  destroy.  Dip  your  heart  in 
that  stream,  Kitty,  and  feel  it  grow  in  your  breast. 
Take  a  nurse's  dress — put  your  hand  in  mine — and 
come!  I  can't  promise  you  luxuries  or  ease.  You've 
had  enough  of  those.  Come  and  open  another  door  in 
the  House  of  Life!  Take  starving  women  and  hunted 
children  into  your  arms — feel  with  them — weep  with 
them — ^look  with  them  into  the  face  of  death!  Make 
friends  with  nature — with  rocks,  forests,  torrents — with 
night  and  dawn,  which  you've  never  seen,  Kitty!  They'll 
love  you — they'll  support  you — the  rough  people — and 
the  dark  forests.  They'll  draw  nature's  glamour  round 
you — they'll  pour  her  balm  into  your  soul.  And  I 
shall  be  with  you — beside  you! — your  guardian — your 
lover — your  lover,  Kitty — till  death  do  us  part." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  smile  which  was  his  only 
but  sufficient  beauty;  the  violent,  exciting  words  flowed 
in  her  ear,  amid  the  sound  of  rising  waves  and  the  dis- 
tant talk  of  the  fishermen.  His  hand  crushed  hers;  his 
mad,  imploring  eyes  repelled  and  constrained  her.     The 

484 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

wild  hungers  and  curiosities  of  her  being  rushed  to  meet 
him;  she  heard  the  echo  of  her  own  words  to  Ashe: 
"More  Hfe — more  life! — even  though  it  lead  to  pain — 
and  agony — and  tears!" 

Then  she  wrenched  herself  away — suddenly,  con- 
temptuously. 

"Of  course,  that's  all  nonsense — romantic  nonsense. 
You've  perhaps  forgotten  that  I  am  one  of  the  women 
who  don't  stir  without  their  maid." 

Cliffe's  expression  changed.  He  thrust  his  hands  into 
his  pockets. 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  must  have  a  maid,"  he  said,  dryly, 
"  that  settles  it.  A  maid  would  be  the  deuce.  And  yet 
— I  think  I  could  find  you  a  Bosnian  girl — strong  and 
faithful — " 

Their  eyes  met — his  already  full  of  a  kind  of  owner- 
ship, tender,  confident,  humorous  even — hers  alive  with 
passionate  anger  and  resistance. 

"Without  a  qualm !"  she  repeated,  in  a  low  voice — 
"without  a  qualm!     Mon  Dieu!" 

She  turned  and  looked  towards  the  Adriatic. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  said,  imperiously. 

For  a  gesture  of  command  on  Cliffe's  part,  unseen  by 
her,  had  sent  the  boat  eastward,  spinning  before  the 
wind.  The  lagoon  was  no  longer  tranquil.  It  was  cov- 
ered with  small  waves;  and  the  roar  of  the  outer  sea, 
though  still  far  off,  was  already  in  their  ears.  The  mist 
lifting  showed  white,  distant  crests  of  foam  on  a  tumbling 
field  of  water,  and  to  the  north,  clothed  in  tempestuous 
purple,  the  dim  shapes  of  mountains. 

Kitty  raised  herself,  and  beckoned  towards  the  cap- 
tain of  the  bragozzo. 

485 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"Giuseppe!" 

"Commanda,  Eccellenza!" 

The  man  came  forward. 

With  a  voice  sharp  and  clear,  she  gave  the  order  to 
return  at  once  to  Venice.  Cliffe  watched  her,  the  veins 
on  his  forehead  swelhng.  She  knew  that  he  debated 
with  himself  whether  he  should  give  a  counter  -  order 
or  no. 

"A  Venezia!"  said  Kitty,  waving  her  hand  towards 
the  sailors,  her  eyes  shining  under  the  tangle  of  her  hair. 

The  helm  was  put  round,  and  beneath  a  tacking  sail 
the  boat  swept  southward. 

With  an  awkward  laugh  Cliffe  fell  back  into  his  seat, 
stretching  his  long  limbs  across  the  boat.  He  had 
spoken  under  a  strong  and  genuine  impulse.  His  pas- 
sion for  her  had  made  enormous  strides  in  these  few  wild 
days  beside  her.  And  yet  the  fantastic  poet's  sense  re- 
sponded at  a  touch  to  the  new  impression.  He  shook- 
off  the  heroic  mood  as  he  had  doffed  his  Bosnian  cloak. 
In  a  few  minutes,  though  the  heightened  color  remained, 
he  was  chatting  and  laughing  as  though  nothing  had 
happened. 

She,  exhausted  physically  and  morally  by  her  con- 
flict with  him,  hardly  spoke  on  the  way  home.  He  en- 
tertained her,  watching  her  all  the  time — a  hundred 
speculations  about  her  passing  through  his  brain.  He 
understood  perfectly  how  the  insight  which  she  had  al- 
lowed him  into  her  grief  and  her  remorse  had  broken 
down  the  barriers  between  them.  Her  incapacity  for 
silence,  and  reticence,  had  undone  her.  Was  he  a  vil- 
lain to  have  taken  advantage  of  it? 

486 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Why  ?  With  a  strange,  half -cynical  clearness  he  saw 
her,  as  the  obstacle  that  she  was,  in  Ashe's  life  and 
career.  For  Ashe — supposing  he,  Clifife,  persuaded  her 
— there  would  be  no  doubt  a  first  shock  of  wrath  and 
pain — then  a  sense  of  deliverance.  For  her,  too,  de- 
liverance! It  excited  his  artist's  sense  to  think  of  all 
the  further  developments  through  which  he  might  carry 
that  eager,  plastic  nature.  There  would  be  a  new  Kitty, 
with  new  capacities  and  powers.  Wasn't  that  justifica- 
tion enough?  He  felt  himself  a  sculptor  in  the  very 
substance  of  life,  moulding  a  living  creature  afresh,  dis- 
engaging it  from  harsh  and  hindering  conditions.  What 
was  there  vile  in  that? 

The  argument  pursued  itself. 

"The  modern  judges  for  himself — makes  his  own  laws, 
as  a  god,  knowing  good  and  evil.  No  doubt  in  time  a 
new  social  law  will  emerge — with  new  sanctions.  Mean- 
while, here  we  are,  in  a  moment  of  transition,  manu- 
facturing new  types,  exploring  new  combinations — by 
which  let  those  who  come  after  profit!" 

Little  delicate,  distinguished  thing! — every  aspect  of 
her,  angry  or  sweet,  sad  or  wilful,  delighted  his  taste  and 
sense.  Moreover,  she  was  his  deliverance,  too — from  an 
ugly  and  vulgar  entanglement  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 
He  shrank  impatiently  from  memories  which  every  now 
and  then  pursued  him  of  the  Ricci's  coarse  beauty  and 
exacting  ways.  Kitty  had  just  appeared  in  time!  He 
felt  himself  rehabilitated  in  his  own  eyes.  Love  may 
trifle  as  it  pleases  with  what  people  call  "  law" ;  but  there 
are  certain  aesthetic  limits  not  to  be  transgressed. 

The  Ricci,  of  course,  was  wild  and  thirsting  for  re- 
venge.    Let  her!     Anxieties  far  more  pressing  disturbed 

487 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

him.  What  if  he  tempted  Kitty  to  this  escapade — and 
the  rough  hfe  killed  her?  He  saw  clearly  how  frail  she 
was. 

But  it  was  the  artificiality  of  her  life,  the  innumerable 
burdens  of  civilization,  which  had  brought  her  to  this! 
Women  were  not  the  weaklings  they  seemed,  or  believed 
themselves  to  be.  For  many  of  them,  probably  for  Kitty, 
a  rude  and  simple  life  would  mean  not  only  fresh  mental 
but  fresh  physical  strength.  He  had  seen  what  women 
could  endure,  for  love's  or  patriotism's  sake!  Make  but 
appeal  to  the  spirit — the  proud  and  tameless  spirit — and 
how  the  flesh  answered!  He  knew  that  his  power  with 
Kitty  came  largely  from  a  certain  stoicism,  a  certain 
hardness,  mingled,  as  he  would  prove  to  her,  with  a 
boundless  devotion.  Let  him  carry  it  through — without 
fears — and  so  enlarge  her  being  and  his  own!  And  as  to 
responsibilities  beyond,  as  to  their  later  lives — let  time 
take  care  of  its  own  births.  For  the  modern  determinist 
of  Cliffe's  type  there  is  no  responsibility.  He  waits  on 
life,  following  where  it  leads,  rejoicing  in  each  new  feel- 
ing, each  fresh  reaction  of  consciousness  on  experience, 
and  so  links  his  fatalist  belief  to  that  Nietzsche  doctrine 
of  self-development  at  all  costs,  and  the  coming  man, 
in  which  Cliffe's  thought  anticipated  the  years. 

Kitty  meanwhile  listened  to  his  intermittent  talk  of 
Venice,  or  Bosnia,  with  all  its  suggestions  of  new  worlds 
and  far  horizons,  and  scarcely  said  a  word. 

But  through  the  background  of  the  brain  there  floated 
with  her,  as  with  him,  a  procession  of  unspoken  thoughts. 
She  had  received  three  letters  from  William.  Imme- 
diately on  his  arrival  he  had  tendered  his  resignation, 

488 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Lord  Parham  had  asked  him  to  suspend  the  matter  for 
ten  days.  Only  the  pressure  of  his  friends,  it  seemed, 
and  the  consternation  of  his  party  had  wrung  from  Ashe 
a  reluctant  consent.  Meanwhile,  all  copies  of  the  book 
had  been  bought  up;  the  important  newspapers  had 
readily  lent  themselves  to  the  suppression  of  the  affair; 
private  wraths  had  been  dealt  with  by  conciliatory  law- 
yers; and  in  general  a  far  more  complete  hushing-up 
had  been  attained  than  Ashe  had  e.ver  imagined  pos- 
sible. There  was  no  doubt  infinite  gossip  in  the  coun- 
try-houses. But  sympathy  for  Kitty  in  her  grief,  for 
Ashe  himself,  and  Lady  Tranmore,  had  done  much  to 
keep  it  within  bounds.  The  little  Dean  especially,  be- 
loved of  all  the  world,  had  been  incessantly  active  on 
behalf  of  peace  and  oblivion. 

All  this  Kitty  read  or  guessed  from  William's  letters. 
After  all,  then,  the  harm  had  not  been  so  great!  Why 
such  a  panic! — such  a  hurry  to  leave  her! — when  she 
was  ill — and  sorry?  And  now  how  curtly,  how  meas- 
uredly  he  wrote!  Behind  the  hopefulness  of  his  tone 
she  read  the  humiliation  and  soreness  of  his  mind — and 
said  t(?  herself,  with  a  more  headlong  conviction  than 
ever,  that  he  would  never  forgive  her. 

No,  never! — and  especially  now  that  she  had  added  a 
thousandfold  to  the  original  offence.  She  had  never 
written  to  him  since  his  departure.  Margaret  French, 
too,  was  angry  with  her — had  almost  broken  with  her. 

They  left  their  boat  on  the  Riva,  and  walked  to  the 
Piazza  through  the  now  starry  dusk.  As  they  pas.sed 
the  great  door  of  St.  Mark's,  two  persons  came  out  of 
the   church.     Kitty    recognized    Mary    Lyster    and    Sir 

489 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

Richard.  She  bowed  slightly;  Sir  Richard  put  his  hand 
to  his  hat  in  a  flurried  way;  but  Mary,  looking  them  both 
in  the  face,  passed  without  the  smallest  sign,  unless  the 
scorn  in  face  and  bearing  might  pass  for  recognition. 

Kitty  gasped. 

"She  cut  me!"  she  said,  in  a  shaking  voice. 

"Oh  no!"  said  Cliffe.  "She  didn't  see  you  in  the 
dark." 

Kitty  made  no  reply.  She  hurried  along  the  northern 
side  of  the  Piazza,  avoiding  the  groups  which  were 
gathered  in  the  sunset  light  round  the  flocks  of  feeding 
pigeons,  brushing  past  the  tables  in  front  of  the  cafes, 
still  well  filled  on  this  mild  evening. 

"Take  care!"  said  Cliffe,  suddenly,  in  a  low,  impera- 
tive voice. 

Kitty  looked  up.  In  her  abstraction  she  saw  that  she 
had  nearly  come  into  collision  with  a  woman  sitting  at 
a  cafe  table  and  surrounded  by  a  noisy  group  of  men. 

With  a  painful  start  Kitty  perceived  the  mocking  eyes 
of  Mademoiselle  Ricci.  The  Ricci  said  something  in 
Italian,  staring  the  while  at  the  English  lady;  and  the 
men  near  her  laughed,  some  furtively,  some  loudly. 

Cliffe's  face  set.  "Walk  quickly!"  he  said  in  her  ear, 
hurrying  her  past. 

When  they  had  reached  one  of  the  narrow  streets 
behind  the  Piazza,  Kitty  looked  at  him — white  and 
haughtily  tremulous.     "What  did  that  mean?" 

"Why  should  you  deign  to  ask?"  was  Cliffe's  im- 
patient reply.  "I  have  ceased  to  go  and  see  her.  I 
suppose  she  guesses  why." 

"I  will  have  no  rivalry  with  Mademoiselle  Ricci!" 
cried  Kitty. 

490 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"You  can't  help  it,"  said  Cliffe,  calmly.  "The  pow- 
ers of  light  are  always  in  rivalry  with  the  powers  of 
darkness." 

And  without  further  pleading  or  excuse  he  stalked 
on,  his  gaunt  form  and  striking  head  towering  above  the 
crowded  pavement.  Kitty  followed  him  with  difficulty, 
conscious  of  a  magnetism  and  a  force  against  which  she 
struggled  in  vain. 

About  a  week  afterwards  Kitty  shut  herself  up  one 
evening  in  her  room  to  write  to  Ashe.  She  had  just 
passed  through  an  agitating  conversation  with  Margaret 
French,  who  had  announced  her  intention  of  returning 
to  England  at  once,  alone,  if  Kitty  would  not  accom- 
pany her.  Kitty's  hands  were  trembling  as  she  began 
to  write. 

"I  am  glad  —  oh!  so  glad,  William  —  that  you  have 
withdrawn  your  resignation  —  that  people  have  come 
forward  so  splendidly,  and  made  you  withdraw  it — that 
Lord  Parham  is  behaving  decently — and  that  you  have 
been  able  to  get  hold  of  all  those  copies  of  the  book.  I 
always  hoped  it  would  not  be  quite  so  bad  as  you 
thought.  But  I  know  you  must  have  gone  through  an 
awful  time — and  I'm  sorry. 

"William,  I  want  to  tell  you  something — for  I  can't 
go  on  lying  to  you — or  even  just  hiding  the  truth.  I 
met  Geoffrey  Cliffe  here — before  you  left — and  I  never 
told  you.  I  saw  him  first  in  a  gondola  the  night  of  the 
serenata — and  then  at  the  Armenian  convent.  Do  you 
remember  my  hurrying  you  and  Margaret  into  the  gar- 
den ?     That  was  to  escape  meeting  him.     And  that  sam» 

491 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

afternoon  when  I  was  in  the  unused  rooms  of  the  Palazzo 
Vercelli — the  rooms  they  show  to  tourists — he  suddenly- 
appeared — and  somehow  I  spoke  to  him,  though  I  had 
never  meant  to  do  so  again. 

"Then  when  you  left  me  I  met  him  again  —  that 
afternoon — and  he  found  out  I  was  very  miserable  and 
made  me  tell  him  everything.  I  know  I  had  no  right  to 
do  so — they  were  your  secrets  as  well  as  mine.  But  you 
know  how  little  I  can  control  myself — it's  wretched,  but 
it's  true. 

"William,  I  don't  know  what  will  happen.  I  can't 
make  out  from  Margaret  whether  she  has  written  to  you 
or  not — she  won't  tell  me.  If  she  has,  this  letter  will 
not  be  much  news  to  you.  But,  mind,  I  write  it  of  my 
own  free  will,  and  not  because  Margaret  may  have  forced 
my  hand.  I  should  have  written  it  anyway.  Poor  old 
darling! — she  thinks  me  mad  and  bad,  and  to-night  she 
tells  me  she  can't  take  the  responsibility  of  looking  after 
me  any  longer.  Women  like  her  can  never  understand 
creatures  like  me — and  I  don't  want  her  to.  She's  a 
dear  saint,  and  as  true  as  steel — not  like  your  Mary 
Lysters!  I  could  go  on  my  knees  to  her.  But  she  can't 
control  or  save  me.  Not  even  you  could,  William. 
You've  tried  your  best,  and  in  spite  of  you  I'm  going 
to  perdition,  and  I  can't  stop  myself. 

"For,  William,  there's  something  broken  forever  be- 
tween you  and  me.  I  know  it  was  I  who  did  the  wrong, 
and  that  you  had  no  choice  but  to  leave  me  when  you 
did.  But  yet  you  did  leave  me,  though  I  implored  you 
not.  And  I  know  very  well  that  you  don't  love  me  as 
you  used  to — why  should  you  ? — and  that  you  never 
can  love  me  in  the  same  way  again.     Every  letter  you 

492 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

write  tells  me  that.  And  though  I  have  deserved  it  all, 
I  can't  bear  it.  When  I  think  of  coming  home  to  Eng- 
land, and  how  you  would  try  to  be  nice  to  me — how 
good  and  dear  and  magnanimous  you  would  be,  and 
what  a  beast  I  should  feel — I  want  to  drown  myself  and 
have  done. 

"  It  all  seems  to  me  so  hopeless.  It  is  my  own  nature — 
the  stuff  out  of  which  I  am  cut — that's  all  wrong.  I  may 
promise  my  breath  away  that  I  will  be  discreet  and  gen- 
tle and  well  behaved,  that  I'll  behave  properly  to  peo- 
ple like  Lady  Parham,  that  I'll  keep  secrets,  and  not 
make  absurd  friendships  with  absurd  people,  that  I'll 
try  and  keep  out  of  debt,  and  so  on.  But  what's  the 
use?  It's  the  will  in  me — the  something  that  drives,  or 
ought  to  drive — that  won't  work.  And  nobody  ever 
taught  me  or  showed  me,  that  I  can  remember,  till  I  met 
you.  In  Paris  at  the  Place  Vendome,  half  the  time  I 
used  to  live  with  maman  and  papa,  be  hideously  spoiled, 
dressed  absurdly,  eat  off  silver  plate,  and  make  myself 
sick  with  rich  things — and  then  for  days  together  maman 
would  go  out  or  away,  forget  all  about  me,  and  I  used  to 
storm  the  kitchen  for  food.  She  either  neglected  me 
or  made  a  show  of  me;  she  was  my  worst  enemy,  and  I 
hated  and  fought  her — till  I  went  to  the  convent  at  ten. 
When  I  was  fourteen  maman  asked  a  doctor  about  me. 
He  said  I  should  probably  go  mad — and  at  the  convent 
they  thought  the  same.  Maman  used  to  throw  this  at 
me  when  she  was  cross  with  me. 

"  Well,  I  don't  repeat  this  to  make  you  excuse  me  and 
think  better  of  me — it's  all  too  late  for  that — but  be- 
cause I  am  such  a  puzzle  to  myself,  and  I  try  to  e.Kplain 
things.     I  did  love  you,  William — I  believe  I  do  still — 

493 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

but  when  I  think  of  our  Hving  together  again,  my  arms 
drop  by  my  side  and  I  feel  Hke  a  dead  creature.  Your 
Hfe  is  too  great  a  thing  for  me.  Why  should  I  spoil  or 
hamper  it  ?  If  you  loved  me,  as  you  did  once — if  you 
still  thought  everything  worth  while,  then,  if  I  had  a 
spark  of  decency  left,  I  might  kill  myself  to  free  you, 
but  I  should  never  do — what  I  may  do  now.  But, 
William,  3'-ou'll  forget  me  soon.  You'll  pass  great  laws, 
and  make  great  speeches,  and  the  years  when  I  torment- 
ed you — and  all  my  wretched  ways — will  seem  such  a 
small,  small  thing. 

"Geoffrey  says  he  loves  me.  And  I  think  he  does, 
though  how  long  it  will  last,  or  may  be  worth,  no  one 
can  tell.  As  for  me,  I  don't  know  whether  I  love  him. 
I  have  no  illusion  about  him.  But  there  are  moments 
when  he  absolutely  holds  me — when  my  will  is  like  wax 
in  his  hands.  It  is  because,  I  think,  of  a  certain  grand- 
iiess — grandeur  seems  too  strong — in  his  character.  It 
was  always  there;  because  no  one  could  write  such 
poems  as  his  without  it.  But  now  it's  more  marked, 
though  I  don't  know  that  it  makes  him  a  better  man. 
He  thinks  it  does ;  but  we  all  deceive  ourselves.  At  anv 
rate,  he  is  often  superb,  and  I  feel  that  I  could  die,  if  not 
for  him,  at  least  with  him.  And  he  is  not  unlikely  to 
die  in  some  heroic  way.  He  went  out  as  you  know 
simply  as  correspondent  and  to  distribute  relief,  but 
lately  he  has  been  fighting  for  these  people — of  course 
he  has! — and  when  he  goes  back  he  is  to  be  one  of  their 
regular  leaders.  When  he  talks  of  it  he  is  noble,  trans- 
formed. It  reminds  me  of  Byron — his  wicked  life  here 
— and  then  his  death  at  Missolonghi.  Geoffrey  can  do 
such  base,  cruel  things— and  yet — 

494 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe' 

"But  I  haven't  yet  told  you.  lie  asks  me  to  go  with 
him,  back  to  the  fighting-hnes  in  upper  Bosnia.  There 
seems  to  be  a  great  deal  that  women  can  do.  I  shall 
wear  a  nurse's  uniform,  and  probably  nurse  at  a  little 
hospital  he  founded— high  up  in  one  of  the  mountain 
valleys.  I  know  this  will  almost  make  you  laugh.  You 
will  think  of  me,  not  knowing  how  to  put  on  a  button 
without  Blanche — and  wanting  to  be  waited  on  every 
moment.  But  you'll  see;  there'll  be  nothing  of  that 
sort.  I  wonder  whether  it's  hardship  I've  been  thirst- 
ing for  all  my  life — even  when  I  seemed  such  a  selfish, 
luxurious  little  ape  ? 

"At  the  same  time,  I  think  it  will  kill  me — and  that 
would  be  the  best  end  of  all.  To  have  some  great, 
heroic  experience,  and  then — '  cease  upon  the  midnight 
with  no  pain!  .  .  .' 

"  Oh,  if  I  thought  you'd  care  very,  very  much,  I  should 
have  pain  —  horrible  pain.  But  I  know  you  won't. 
Politics  have  taken  my  place.  Think  of  me  sometimes, 
as  I  was  when  we  were  first  married — and  of  Harry — 
my  little,  little  fellow! 

"  — Maman  and  I  have  had  a  ghastly  scene.  She  came 
to  scold  me  for  my  behavior — to  say  I  was  the  talk  of 
Venice.  She!  Of  course  I  know  what  she  means.  She 
thinks  if  I  am  divorced  she  will  lose  her  allowance — and 
she  can't  bear  the  thought  of  that,  though  Markham 
Warington  is  quite  rich.  My  heart  just  boiled  within 
me.  I  told  her  it  is  the  poison  of  her  life  that  works  in 
me,  and  that  whatever  I  do,  she  has  no  right  to  re- 
proach me.  Then  she  cried — and  I  was  like  ice — and 
at  last  she  went.  Warington,  good  fellow,  has  written 
to  me,  and  asked  to  see  me.     But  what  is  the  use  ? 

495 


♦  The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"I  know  you'll  leave  me  the  ^^500  a  year  that  was 
settled  on  me.  It  '11  be  so  good  for  me  to  be  poor — and 
dressed  in  serge — and  trying  to  do  something  else  with 
these  useless  hands  than  writing  books  that  break  your 
heart.  I  am  giving  away  all  my  smart  clothes.  Blanche 
is  going  home.  Oh,  William,  William!  I'm  going  to 
shut  this,  and  it's  like  the  good-bye  of  death — a  mean 
and  ugly — death. 

"...  Later.  They  have  just  brought  me  a  note  from 
Danieli's.  So  Margaret  did  write  to  you,  and  your 
mother  has  come.  Why  did  you  send  her,  William? 
She  doesn't  love  me — and  I  shall  only  stab  and  hurt 
her.     Though  I'll  try  not — for  your  sake." 

Two  days  later  Ashe  received  almost  by  the  same  post 
which  brought  him  the  letter  from  Kitty,  just  quoted, 
the  following  letter  from  his  mother: 

"My  dearest  William, — I  have  seen  Kitty.  With 
some  difficulty  she  consented  to  let  me  go  and  see  her 
yesterday  evening  about  nine  o'clock. 

"I  arrived  between  six  and  seven,  having  travelled 
straight  through  without  a  break,  except  for  an  hour  or 
two  at  Milan,  and  immediately  on  arriving  I  sent  a  note 
to  Margaret  French.  She  came  in  great  distress,  hav- 
ing just  had  a  fresh  scene  with  Kitty.  Oh,  my  dear 
William,  her  report  could  not  well  be  worse.  Since  she 
wrote  to  us  Kitty  seems  to  have  thrown  over  all  pre- 
cautions. They  used  to  meet  in  churches  or  galleries, 
and  go  out  for  long  days  in  the  gondola  or  a  fishing-boat 
together,  and  Kitty  would  come  home  alone  and  lie  on 
the  sofa  through   the  evening,  almost  without  speak- 

496 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

ing  or  moving.  But  lately  he  comes  in  with  her,  and 
stays  hours,  reading  to  her,  or  holding  her  hand,  or 
talking  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  and  Margaret  cannot 
stop  it. 

"Yet  she  has  done  her  best,  poor  girl!  Knowing  what 
we  all  knew  last  year,  it  filled  her  with  terror  when  she 
first  discovered  that  he  was  in  Venice  and  that  they  had 
met.  But  it  was  not  till  it  had  gone  on  about  a  week, 
with  the  strangest  results  on  Kitty's  spirits  and  nerves, 
that  she  felt  she  must  interfere.  She  not  only  spoke  to 
Kitty,  but  she  spoke  and  wrote  to  him  in  a  very  firm, 
dignified  way.  Kitty  took  no  notice — only  became  very 
silent  and  secretive.  And  he  treated  poor  Margaret 
with  a  kind  of  courteous  irony  which  made  her  blood 
boil,  and  against  which  she  could  do  nothing.  She  says 
that  Kitty  seems  to  her  sometimes  like  a  person  moving 
in  sleep — only  half  conscious  of  what  she  is  doing;  and 
at  others  she  is  wildly  excitable,  irritable  with  every- 
body, and  only  calming  down  and  becoming  reasonable 
when  this  man  appears. 

"There  is  much  talk  in  Venice.  They  seem  to  have 
been  seen  together  by  various  London  friends  who  knew 
— about  the  difficulties  last  year.  And  then,  of  course, 
everybody  is  aware  that  you  are  not  here — and  the 
whole  story  of  the  book  goes  from  mouth  to  mouth — 
and  people  say  that  a  separation  has  been  arranged— 
and  so  on.  These  are  the  kind  of  rumors  that  Mar- 
garet hears,  especially  from  Mary  Lyster,  who  is  stay- 
ing in  this  hotel  with  her  father,  and  seems  to  have  a 
good  many  friends  here. 

"Dearest  William — I  have  been  lingering  on  these 
things  because  it  is  so  hard  to  have  to  tell  you  what 

49  7 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

passed  between  me  and  Kitty.  Oh!  my  dear,  dear  son. 
take  courage.  Even  now  everything  is  not  lost.  Her 
conscience  may  awaken  at  the  last  moment;  this  bad 
man  may  abandon  his  pursuit  of  her;  I  may  still  succeed 
in  bringmg  her  back  to  you.  But  I  am  in  terrible  fear 
— and  I  must  tell  you  the  whole  truth. 

"Kitty  received  me  alone.  The  room  was  very  dark 
— only  one  lamp  that  gave  a  bad  light — so  that  I  saw 
her  very  indistinctly.  She  was  in  black,  and,  as  far  as  I 
could  see,  extremely  pale  and  weary.  And  what  struck 
me  painfully  was  her  haggard,  careless  look.  All  the 
little  details  of  her  dress  and  hair  seemed  so  neglected. 
Blanche  says  she  is  far  too  irritable  and  impatient  in  the 
mornings  to  let  her  hair  be  done  as  usual.  She  just 
rolls  it  into  one  big  knot  herself  and  puts  a  comb  in  it. 
She  wears  the  simplest  clothes,  and  changes  as  little  as 
possible.  She  says  she  is  soon  going  to  have  done  with 
all  that  kind  of  thing,  and  she  must  get  used  to  it.  My 
own  impression  is  that  she  is  going  through  great  agony 
of  mind — above  all,  that  she  is  ill — ill  in  body  and  soul. 

"She  told  me  quite  calmly,  however,  that  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  leave  you ;  she  said  that  she  had 
written  to  you  to  tell  you  so.  I  asked  her  if  it  was  be- 
cause she  had  ceased  to  love  you.  After  a  pause  she 
said  'No.'  Was  it  because  some  one  else  had  come  be- 
tween you?  She  threw  up  her  head  proudly,  and  said 
it  was  best  to  be  quite  plain  and  frank.  She  had  met 
Geoffrey  Cliffe  again,  and  she  tneant  henceforward  to 
share  his  life.  Then  she  went  into  the  wildest  dreams 
abovit  going  back  with  him  to  the  Balkans,  and  nursing 
in  a  hospital,  and  dying — she  hopes! — of  hard  work  and 
privations.     And  all  this  in  a  torrent  of  words — and  her 

49S 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

eyes  blazing,  with  that  look  in  them  as  though  she  saw 
nothing  but  the  scenes  of  her  own  imagination.  She 
talked  of  devotion— and  of  forgetting  herself  in  other 
people.  I  could  only  tell  her,  of  course,  that  all  this 
sounded  to  me  the  most  grotesque  sophistry  and  per- 
version. She  was  forgetting  her  first  duty,  breaking 
her  marriage  vow,  and  tearing  your  life  asunder.  She 
shook  her  head,  and  said  you  would  soon  forget  her. 
'If  he  had  loved  me  he  would  never  have  left  me!'  she 
said,  again  and  again,  with  a  passion  I  shall  never  forget. 

"Of  course  that  made  me  very  angry,  and  I  described 
what  the  situation  had  been  when  you  reached  London 
— Lord  Parham's  state  of  mind — and  the  consternation 
caused  everywhere  by  the  wretched  book.  I  tried  to 
make  her  understand  what  there  was  at  stake — the 
hopes  of  all  who  follow  you  in  the  House  and  the  coun- 
try— the  great  reforms  of  which  you  are  the  life  and 
soul — your  personal  and  political  honor.  I  impressed 
on  her  the  endless  trouble  and  correspondence  in  which 
you  had  been  involved  —  and  how  meanwhile  all  your 
Home  Office  and  cabinet  work  had  to  be  carried  on  as 
usual,  till  it  was  decided  whether  your  resignation  should 
be  withdrawn  or  no.  She  listened  with  her  head  on  her 
hands.  I  think  with  regard  to  the  book  she  is  most 
genuinely  ashamed  and  miserable.  And  yet  all  the 
time  there  is  this  unreasonable,  this  monstrous  feeling 
that  you  should  not  have  left  her! 

"As  to  the  scandalous  references  to  private  persons, 
she  said  that  Madeleine  Alcot  had  written  to  her  about 
the  country-house  gossip.  That  wretched  being,  Mr. 
Darrell,  seems  also  to  have  written  to  her,  trying  to  save 
himself   through   her.     And    the   only   time   I    saw   her 

499 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

laugh  was  when  she  spoke  of  having  had  a  furious  letter 
from  Lady  Grosville  about  the  references  to  Grosville 
Park.  It  was  like  the  laugh  of  a  mischievous,  unhappy 
child. 

"Then  we  came  back  to  the  main  matter,  and  I  im- 
plored her  to  let  me  take  her  home.  First  I  gave  her 
your  letter.  She  read  it,  flushed  up,  and  threw  it  away 
from  her.  'He  commands  me!'  she  said,  fiercely.  'But 
I  am  no  one's  chattel.'  I  replied  that  you  had  only  sum- 
moned her  back  to  her  duty  and  her  home,  and  I  asked 
her  if  she  could  really  mean  to  repay  your  unfailing  love 
by  bringing  anguish  and  dishonor  upon  you?  She  sat 
dumb,  and  her  stubbornness  moved  me  so  that  I  fear 
I  lost  my  self-control  and  said  more,  much  more — in 
denunciation  of  her  conduct — -than  I  had  meant  to  do. 
She  heard  me  out,  and  then  she  got  up  and  looked  at 
me  very  bitterly  and  strangely.  I  had  never  loved  her, 
she  said,  and  so  I  could  not  judge  her.  Always  from 
the  beginning  1  had  thought  her  unfit  to  be  your  wife, 
and  she  had  known  it,  and  my  dislike  of  her,  especially 
during  the  past  year,  had  made  her  hard  and  reckless. 
It  had  seemed  no  use  trying.  I  just  wanted  her  dead, 
that  you  might  marry  a  wife  who  would  be  a  help  and 
not  a  stumbling-block.  Well,  I  should  have  my  wish,  for 
she  would  soon  be  as  good  as  dead,  both  to  you  and  to  me. 

"All  this  hurt  me  deeply,  and  I  eould  not  restrain 
myself  from  crying.  I  felt  so  helpless,  and  so  doubtful 
whether  I  had  not  done  more  harm  than  good.  Then 
she  softened  a  little,  and  asked  me  to  let  her  go  to  bed 
— she  would  think  it  all  over  and  write  to  me  in  the 
morning.  .  .  . 

"So,  my  dear  William,  I  can  only  pray  and  wait.  I 
500 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

am  afraid  there  is  but  little  hope,  but  God  is  merciful 
and  strong.     He  may  yet  save  us  all. 

"But  whatever  happens,  remember  that  you  have 
nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with — that  you  have  done 
all  that  man  could  do.  I  should  telegraph  to  you  in 
the  morning  to  say,  'Come,  at  all  hazards,'  but  that  I 
feel  sure  all  will  be  settled  to-morrow  one  way*  or  the 
other.  Either  Kitty  will  start  with  me — or  she  will  go 
with  Geoffrey  Cliffe.  You  could  do  nothing — abso- 
lutely nothing.  God  help  us!  She  seems  to  have  some 
money,  and  she  told  me  that  she  counted  on  retaining 
her  jointure." 

On  the  night  following  her  interview  with  Lady  Tran- 
more,  Kitty  went  from  one  restless,  tormented  dream 
into  another,  but  towards  morning  she  fell  into  one  of 
a  different  kind.  She  dreamed  she  was  in  a  country  of 
great  mountains.  The  peaks  were  snow-crowned,  vast 
glaciers  filled  the  chasms  on  their  flanks,  forests  of  pines 
clothed  the  lower  sides  of  the  hills,  and  the  fields  below 
were  full  of  spring  flowers.  She  saw  a  little  Alpine  vil- 
lage, and  a  church  with  an  old  and  slender  campanile. 
A  plain  stone  building  stood  by — it  seemed  to  be  an  inn 
of  the  old-fashioned  sort — and  she  entered  it.  The  dm- 
ner-table  was  ready  in  the  low-roofed  salle-a-manger , 
and  as  she  sat  down  to  eat  she  saw  that  two  other 
guests  were  at  the  same  table.  She  glanced  at  them, 
and  perceived  that  one  was  William  and  the  other  her 
child,  Harry,  grown  older — and  transfigured.  Instead 
of  the  dull  and  clouded  look  which  had  wrung  her  heart 
in  the  old  days,  against  which  she  had  striven,  patiently 
and  impatiently,  in  vain,  the  blue  eyes  were  alive  with 

SOI 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

mind  and  affection.  It  was  as  if  the  child  beheld  his 
mother  for  the  first  time  and  she  him.  As  he  recog- 
nized her  he  gave  a  cry  of  joy,  waving  one  hand  towards 
her  while  with  the  other  he  touched  his  father  on  the 
arm.  William  raised  his  head.  But  when  he  saw  his 
wife  his  face  changed.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
drawing  the  little  boy  into  his  arms  he  walked  away. 
Kitty  saw  them  disappear  into  a  long  passage,  indeter- 
minate and  dark.  The  child's  face  over  his  father's 
shoulder  was  turned  in  longing  towards  his  mother,  and 
as  he  was  carried  away  he  stretched  out  his  little  hands 
to  her  in  lamentation. 

Kitty  woke  up  bathed  in  tears.  She  sprang  out  of 
bed  and  threw  the  window  nearest  to  her  open  to  the 
night.  The  winter  night  was  mild,  and  a  full  moon 
sailed  the  southern  sky.  Not  a  sound  on  the  water,  not 
a  light  in  the  palaces ;  a  city  of  ebony  and  silver,  Venice 
slept  in  the  moonlight.  Kitty  gathered  a  cloak  and 
some  shawls  round  her,  and  sank  into  a  low  chair,  still 
crying  and  half  conscious.  At  his  inn,  some  few  hun- 
dred yards  away,  between  her  and  the  Piazzetta,  was 
Geoffrey  Cliffe  waking  too  ? — making  his  last  prepara- 
tions? She  knew  that  all  his  stores  were  ready,  and 
that  he  proposed  to  ship  them  and  the  twenty  young 
fellows,  Italians  and  Dalmatians,  who  were  going  with 
him  to  join  the  insurgents,  that  morning,  by  a  boat 
leaving  for  Cattaro.  He  himself  was  to  follow  twenty- 
four  hours  later,  and  it  was  his  firm  and  confident  ex- 
pectation that  Kitty  would  go  with  him — passing  as 
his  wife.  And,  indeed,  Kitty's  own  arrangements  were 
almost  complete,  her  money  in  her  purse,  the  clothes 
she  meant  to  take  with  her  packed  in  one  small  trunk, 

502 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

some  of  the  Tranmpre  jewels  which  she  had  been  recent- 
ly wearing  ready  to  be  returned  on  the  morrow  to  Lady 
Tranmore's  keeping,  other  jewels,  which  she  regarded 
as  her  own,  together  with  the  remainder  of  her  clothes, 
put  aside,  in  order  to  be  left  in  the  custody  of  the  land- 
lord of  the  apartment  till  Kitty  should  claim  them  again. 

One  more  day — which  would  probably  see  the  depart- 
ure of  Margaret  French — one  more  wrestle  with  Lady 
Tranmore,  and  all  the  links  with  the  old  life  would  be 
torn  away.  A  bare,  stripped  soul,  dependent  henceforth 
on  Geoffrc}-  Cliffe  for  every  crumb  of  happiness,  tread- 
ing in  unknown  paths,  suffering  unknown  things,  prob- 
ing unknown  passions  and  excitements — it  was  so  she 
saw  herself;  not  without  that  corroding  double  conscious- 
ness of  the  modern,  that  it  was  all  very  interesting,  and 
as  such  to  be  forgiven  and  admired. 

Notwithstanding  what  she  had  said  to  Ashe,  she  did 
believe — with  a  clinging  and  desperate  faith — that  Cliffe 
loved  her.  Had  she  really  doubted  it,  her  conduct  would 
have  been  inexplicable,  even  to  herself,  and  he  must  have 
seemed  a  madman.  What  else  could  have  induced  him 
to  burden  himself  with  a  woman  on  such  an  errand  and 
at  such  a  time?  She  had  promised,  indeed,  to  be  his 
lieutenant  and  comrade — and  to  return  to  Venice  if  her 
health  should  be  unequal  to  the  common  task.  But 
in  spite  of  the  sternness  with  which  he  put  that 
task  first — a  sternness  which  was  one  of  his  chief  at- 
tractions for  Kitty — she  knew  well  that  her  coming 
threw  a  glamour  round  it  which  it  had  never  yet  pos- 
sessed, that  the  passion  she  had  aroused  in  him,  and  the 
triumph  of  binding  her  to  his  fate,  possessed  him — for 
the  moment  at  any  rate — heart  and  soul.     He  had  the 

503 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

poet's  resources,  too,  and  a  mind  wherewith  to  organize 
and  govern.  She  shrank  from  him  still,  but  she  already- 
envisaged  the  time  when  her  being  would  sink  into  and 
fuse  with  his,  and  like  two  colliding  stars  they  would 
flame  together  to  one  fiery  death. 

Thoughts  like  these  ran  in  her  mind.  Yet  all  the 
time  she  saw  the  high  mountains  of  her  dream,  the  old 
inn,  the  receding  face  of  her  child  on  William's  shoulder; 
and  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  The  letter  from 
William  that  Lady  Tranmore  had  given  her  lay  on 
a  table  near.  She  took  it  up,  and  lit  a  candle  to 
read  it. 

"  Kitty — I  bid  you  come  home.  I  should  have  started 
for  Venice  an  hour  ago,  after  reading  Miss  French's  let- 
ter, but  that  honor  and  public  duty  keep  me  here.  But 
mother  is  going,  and  I  implore  and  command  you,  as 
your  husband,  to  return  with  her.  Oh,  Kitty,  have  I 
ever  failed  you? — have  I  ever  been  hard  with  you? — 
that  you  should  betray  our  love  like  this  ?  Was  I  hard 
when  we  parted — a  month  ago  ?  If  I  was,  forgive  me,  I 
was  sore  pressed.  Come  home,  you  poor  child,  and  you 
shall  hear  no  reproaches  from  me.  I  think  I  have  nearly 
succeeded  in  undoing  your  rash  work.  But  what  good 
will  that  be  to  me  if  you  are  to  use  my  absence  for  that 
purpose  to  bring  us  both  to  ruin?  Kitty,  the  grass  is 
not  yet  green  on  our  child's  grave.  I  was  at  Haggart 
last  Sunday,  and  I  went  over  in  the  dusk  to  put  some 
flowers  upon  it.  I  thought  of  you  without  a  moment's 
bitterness,  and  prayed  for  us  both,  if  such  as  I  may 
pray.  Then  next  morning  came  Miss  French's  letter. 
Kitty,  have  you  no  heart — and  no  conscience?     Will 

504 


The    Marriage   of  William    Ashe 

you  bring  disgrace  on  that  little  grave?  Will  you  dig 
between  us  the  gulf  which  is  irreparable,  across  which 
your  hand  and  mine  can  never  touch  each  other  any 
more?  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  believe  it.  Come  back 
to  me — come  back!" 

She  reread  it  with  a  melting  heart — ^with  deep,  shak- 
ing sobs.  When  she  first  glanced  through  it  the  word 
"command"  had  burned  into  her  proud  sense;  the  rest 
passed  almost  unnoticed.  Now  the  very  strangeness  in 
it  as  coming  from  William — the  strangeness  of  its  grave 
and  deep  emotion — held  and  grappled  with  her. 

Suddenly — some  tension  of  the  whole  being  seemed 
to  give  way.  Her  head  sank  back  on  the  chair,  she  felt 
herself  weak  and  trembling,  yet  happy  as  a  soul  new- 
bom  into  a  world  of  light.  Waking  dreams  passed 
through  her  brain  in  a  feverish  succession,  reversing  the 
dream  of  the  night — images  of  peace  and  goodness  and 
reunion. 

Minutes  —  hours  —  passed.  With  the  first  light  she 
got  up  feebly,  found  ink  and  paper,  and  began  to  write. 

From  Lady  Tranmore  to  William  Ashe: 

"Oh!  my  dearest  William — at  last  a  gleam  of  hope. 

"  No  letter  this  morning.  I  was  in  despair.  Margaret 
reported  that  Kitty  refused  to  see  any  one — had  locked 
her  door,  and  was  writing.  Yet  no  letter  came.  I  made 
an  attempt  to  see  Geoffrey  ClifiEe,  who  is  staying  at  the 
'  Germania,'  but  he  refused.  He  wrote  me  the  most 
audacious  letter  to  say  that  an  interview  could  only  be 
very  painful,  that  he  and  Kitty  must  decide  for  them- 
selves, that  he  was  waiting  every  hour  for  a  final  word 

SOS 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

from  Kitty.  It  rested  with  her,  and  with  her  only. 
Coercion  in  these  matters  was  no  longer  possible,  and 
he  did  not  suppose  that  either  you  or  I  would  attempt  it. 

"And  now  comes  this  blessed  note — a  respite  at  least! 
'7  am  going  to  Verona  to-night  with  Blanche.  Please  let 
no  one  attempt  to  follow  me.  I  wish  to  have  two  days 
alone — absolutely  alone.     Wait  here.     I  will  write.     K.' 

"...  Margaret  French,  too,  has  just  been  here.  She 
was  almost  hysterical  with  relief  and  joy — and  you  know 
what  a  calm,  self-controlled  person  she  is.  But  her  dear, 
round  face  has  grown  white,  and  her  eyes  behind  her 
spectacles  look  as  though  she  had  not  slept  for  nights. 
She  says  that  Kitty  will  not  see  her.  She  sent  her  a  note 
by  Blanche  to  ask  her  to  settle  all  the  accounts,  and 
told  her  that  she  should  not  say  good-bye^t  would  be 
too  agitating  for  them  both.  In  two  days  she  should 
hear.  Meanwhile  the  maid  Blanche  is  certainly  going 
with  Kitty;  and  the  gondola  is  ordered  for  the  Milan 
train  this  evening. 

"Two  P.M.  There  is  one  thing  that  troubles  me,  and  I 
must  confess  it.  I  did  not  see  that  across  Kitty's  letter 
in  the  corner  was  written  'Tell  nobody  about  this  letter.* 
And  Polly  Lyster  happened  to  be  with  me  when  it  came. 
She  has  been  au  courant  of  the  whole  affair  for  the  last 
fortnight — that  is,  as  an  on-looker.  She  and  Kitty  have 
only  met  once  or  twice"  since  Mary  reached  Venice ;  but 
in  one  way  or  another  she  has  been  extraordinarily  well 
informed.  And,  as  I  told  you,  she  came  to  see  me  direct- 
ly I  arrived  and  told  me  all  she  knew.  You  know  her 
old  friendship  for  us,  William?  She  has  many  weak- 
nesses, and  of  late  I  have  thought  her  much  changed, 
grown  very  hard  and  bitter.     But  she  is  always  very 

506 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

loyal  to  you  and  tne — and  I  could  not  help  betraying 
my  feeling  when  Kitty's  note  reached  me.  Mary  came 
and  put  her  arms  round  me,  and  I  said  to  her,  'Oh, 
Mary,  thank  God! — she's  broken  with  him!  She's  going 
to  Verona  to-night  on  the  way  home!'  And  she  kissed 
me  and  seemed  so  glad.  And  I  was  very  grateful  to  her 
for  her  sympathy,  for  I  am  beginning  to  feel  my  age, 
and  this  has  been  rather  a  strain.  But  I  oughtn't  to 
have  told  her! — or  anybody!  I  see,  of  course,  what 
Kitty  meant.  It  is  incredible  that  Mary  should  breathe 
a  word — or  if  she  did  that  it  should  reach  that  man. 
But  I  have  just  sent  her  a  note  to  Danieli's  to  warn  her 
in  the  strongest  way. 

"  Beloved  son — if,  indeed,  we  save  her — we  will  be  very 
good  to  her,  you  and  I.  We  will  remember  her  bringing 
up  and  her  inheritance.  I  will  be  more  loving — more 
like  Christ.  I  hope  He  will  forgive  me  for  my  harsh- 
ness in  the  past.  .  .  .  My  William! — I  love  you  so!  God 
be  merciful  to  you  and  to  your  poor  Kitty!" 


"Will  the  signora  have  her  dinner  outside  or  in  the 
salle-a-mangerr' 

The  question  was  addressed  to  Kitty  by  a  little 
Italian  waiter  belonging  to  the  Albergo  San  Zeno  at 
Verona,  who  stood  bent  before  her,  his  white  napkin 
under  his  arm. 

"Out  here,  please — and  for  my  maid  also." 

The  speaker  moved  wearily  towards  the  low  wall 
which  bounded  the  foaming  Adige,  and  looked  across 
the  river.  Far  away  the  Alps  that  look  down  on  Garda 
glistened  under  the  stars,  the  citadel  on  its  hill,  the 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

houses  across  the  river  were  aUve  with  Ughts;  to  the 
left  the  great  mediaeval  bridge  rose,  a  dark,  ponderous 
mass,  above  the  torrents  of  the  Adige.  Overhead,  the 
little  outside  restaurant  was  roofed  with  twining  vine- 
stems  from  which  the  leaves  had  fallen;  colored  lights 
twinkled  among  them  and  on  the  white  tables  under- 
neath. The  night  was  mild  and  still,  and  a  veiled  moon 
was  just  rising  over  the  town  of  Juliet. 

"Blanche!" 

"Yes,  my  lady?" 

"Bring  a  chair,  Blanchie,  and  come  and  sit  by  me." 

The  little  maid  did  as  she  was  told,  and  Kitty  slipped 
her  hand  into  hers  with  a  long  sigh. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  my  lady?" 

"Yes— but  don't  talk!" 

The  two  sat  silent,  clinging  to  each  other. 

A  step  on  the  cobble-stones  disturbed  them.  Blanche 
looked  up,  and  saw  a  gentleman  issuing  from  a  lane 
which  connected  the  narrow  quay  whereon  stood  the  old 
Albergo  San  Zeno  with  one  of  the  main  streets  of 
Verona. 

There  was  a  cry  from  Kitty.  The  stranger  paused — 
looked — advanced.  The  little  maid  rose,  half  fierce, 
half  frightened. 

"Go,  Blanche,  go!"  said  Kitty,  panting;  "go  back  into 
the  hotel." 

"Not  unless  your  ladyship  wishes  me  to  leave  you," 
said  the  girl,  firmly. 

"Go  at  once!"  Kitty  repeated,  with  a  peremptory 
gesture.  She  herself  rose  from  her  seat,  and  with  one 
hand  resting  on  the  table  awaited  the  new-comer. 
Blanche  looked  at  her — hesitated — and  went. 

508 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Geoffrey  Cliffe  came  to  Kitty's  side.  As  he  approach- 
ed her  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  lovehness  of  her  atti- 
tude, her  fair  head.  In  his  own  expression  there  was  a 
visionary,  fantastic  joy;  it  was  the  look  of  the  dreamer 
who,  for  once,  finds  in  circumstance  and  the  real,  poetry 
adequate  and  overflowing. 

"Kitty! — why  did  you  do  this?"  he  said  to  her,  pas- 
sionately, as  he  caught  her  hand. 

Kitty  snatched  it  away,  trembling  under  his  look. 
She  began  the  answer  she  had  devised  while  he  was 
crossing  the  flagged  quay  towards  her.  But  Cliffe  paid 
no  heed.  He  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  she 
sank  back  powerless  into  her  chair  as  he  bent  over  her. 

"Cruel — cruel  child,  to  play  with  me  so!  Did  you 
mean  to  put  me  to  a  last  test  ? — or  did  your  hard  little 
heart  misgive  you  at  the  last  moment  ?  I  cross-ex- 
amined your  landlady — I  bribed  the  servants — the  gon- 
doliers. Not  a  word!  They  were  loyal — or  you  had 
paid  them  better.  I  went  back  to  my  hotel  in  black 
despair.  Oh,  you  artist! — you  plotter!  Kitty — you  shall 
pay  me  this  some  day!  And  there — there  on  my  table 
— all  the  time — lay  your  little  crumpled  note!" 

"What  note?"  she  gasped — "what  note?" 

"Actress!"  he  said,  with  an  amused  laugh. 

And  cautiously,  playfully,  lest  she  should  snatch  it 
from  him,  he  unfolded  it  before  her. 

Without  signature  and  without  date,  the  soiled  half- 
sheet  contained  this  message,  written  in  Italian  and  in  a 
disguised  handwriting: 

"Too  many  spectators.      Come  to  Verona  to-night. 

"K." 

509 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

Kitty  looked  at  it,  and  then  at  the  face  beside  her — 
infused  with  a  triumphant  power  and  passion.  She 
seemed  to  shrink  upon  herself,  and  her  head  fell  back 
against  one  of  the  supports  of  the  pergola.  One  of  the 
blue  lights  from  above  fell  with  ghastly  effect  upon  the 
delicate  tilted  face  and  closed  eyes.  CliflEe  bent  over  her 
in  a  sharp  alarm,  and  saw  that  she  had  fainted  away. 


PART   V 
REaUIESCAT 

"  Pluck,  pluck  cypress,  O  pale  maidens, 
Dusk  the  hall  with  yew!" 


XXIII 

How  strange!"  thought  the  Dean,  as  he  once  more 
stepped  back  into  the  street  to  look  at  the  front  of 
the  Home  Secretary's  house  in  Hill  Street.  "He  is  cer- 
tainly in  town." 

For,  according  to  the  Times,  William  Ashe  the  night 
before  had  been  hotly  engaged  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons fighting  an  important  bill,  of  which  he  was  in 
charge,  through  committee.  Yet  the  blinds  of  the 
house  in  Hill  Street  were  all  drawn,  and  the  Dean  had 
not  yet  succeeded  in  getting  any  one  to  answer  the  bell. 

He  returned  to  the  attack,  and  this  time  a  charwoman 
appeared.  At  sight  of  the  Dean's  legs  and  apron,  she 
dropped  a  courtesy,  or  something  like  one,  informing  him 
that  they  had  workmen  in  the  house  and  Mr.  Ashe  was 
"staying  with  her  ladyship." 

The  Dean  took  the  Tranmores'  number  in  Park  Lane 
and  departed  thither,  not  without  a  sad  glance  at  the 
desolate  hall  behind  the  charwoman  and  at  the  dark- 
ened windows  of  the  drawing-room  overhead.  He 
thought  of  that  May  day  two  years  before  when  he  had 
dropped  in  to  lunch  with  Lady  Kitty;  his  memory, 
equally  effective  whether  it  summoned  the  detail  of  an 
English  chronicle  or  the  features  of  a  face  once  seen, 
placed  firm  and  clear  before  him  the  long-chinned  fel- 
low at  Lady  Kitty's  left,  to  whose  villany  that  empty 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

and  forsaken  house  bore  cruel  witness.  And  the  little 
lady  herself — what  a  radiant  and  ethereal  beauty!  Ah 
me!  ah  me! 

He  walked  on  in  meditation,  his  hands  behind  his 
back.  Even  in  this  May  London  the  little  Dean  was 
capable  of  an  abstracted  spirit,  and  he  had  still  much  to 
think  over.  He  had  his  appointment  with  Ashe.  But 
Ashe  had  written — evidently  in  a  press  of  business — 
from  the  House,  and  had  omitted  to  mention  his  tem- 
porary change  of  address.  The  Dean  regretted  it.  He 
would  rather  have  done  his  errand  with  Lady  Kitty's 
injured  husband  on  some  neutral  ground,  and  not  in 
Lady  Tranmore's  house. 

At  Park  Lane,  however,  he  was  immediately  ad- 
mitted. 

"Mr.  Ashe  will  be  down  directly,  sir,"  said  the  butler, 
as  he  ushered  the  visitor  into  the  commodious  library  on 
the  ground-floor,  which  had  witnessed  for  so  long  the 
death-in-life  of  Lord  Tranmore.  But  now  Lord  Tran- 
more  was  bedridden  up-stairs,  with  two  nurses  to  look 
after  him,  and  to  judge  from  the  aspect  of  the  tables 
piled  with  letters  and  books,  and  from  the  armful  of 
papers  which  a  private  secretary  carried  off  with  him 
as  he  disappeared  before  the  Dean,  Ashe  was  now  fully 
at  home  in  the  room  which  had  been  his  father's. 

There  was  still  a  fire  in  the  grate,  and  the  small  Dean, 
who  was  a  chilly  mortal,  stood  on  the  rug  looking  ner- 
vously about  him.  Lord  Tranmore  had  been  in  office 
himself,  and  the  room,  with  its  bookshelves  filled  with 
volumes  in  worn  calf  bindings,  its  solid  writing-tables 
and  leather  sofas,  its  candlesticks  and  inkstands  of  old 
silver,  slender  and  simple  in  pattern,  its  well-worn  Tur- 

514 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

key  carpet,  and  its  political  portraits — "the  Duke," 
Johnny  Russell,  Lord  Althorp,  Peel,  Melbourne — seem- 
ed, to  the  observer  on  the  rug,  steeped  in  the  typical 
habit  and  reminiscence  of  English  public  life. 

Well,  if  the  father,  poor  fellow,  had  been  distinguished 
in  his  day,  the  son  had  gone  far  beyond  him.  The  Dean 
ruminated  on  a  conversation  wherewith  he  had  just  be- 
guiled his  cup  of  tea  at  the  Athenaeum — a  conversation 
with  one  of  the  shrewdest  members  of  Lord  Parham's 
cabinet,  a  "new  man,"  and  an  enthusiastic  follower  of 
Ashe. 

"Ashe  is  magnificent!  At  last  our  side  has  found  its 
leader.  Oh!  Parham  will  disappear  with  the  next  ap- 
peal to  the  country.  He  is  getting  too  infirm!  Above 
all,  his  eyes  are  nearly  gone ;  his  oculist,  I  hear,  gives  him 
no  more  than  six  months'  sight,  unless  he  throws  up. 
Then  Ashe  will  take  his  proper  place,  and  if  he  doesn't 
make  his  mark  on  English  history,  I'm  a  Dutchman. 
Oh!  of  course  that  affair  last  year  was  an  awful  business 
— the  two  affairs!  When  Parliament  opened  in  Feb- 
ruary there  were  some  of  us  who  thought  that  Ashe 
would  never  get  through  the  session.  A  man  so  changed, 
so  struck  down,  I  have  seldom  seen.  You  remember 
what  a  handsome  boy  he  was,  up  to  last  year  even! 
Now  he's  a  middle-aged  man.  All  the  same,  he  held  on, 
and  the  House  gave  him  that  quiet  sympathy  and  sup- 
port that  it  can  give  when  it  likes  a  fellow.  And  grad- 
ually you  could  see  the  life  come  back  into  him — and 
the  ambition.  By  George!  he  did  well  in  that  trade- 
union  business  before  Easter;  and  the  bill  that's  on 
now — it's  masterly,  the  way  in  which  he's  piloting  it 
through!     The  House  positively  likes  to  be  managed  by 

515 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

him;  it's  a  sight  worthy  of  our  best  political  traditions. 
Oh  yes,  Ashe  will  go  far;  and,  thank  God,  that  wretched 
little  woman — what  has  become  of  her,  by-the-way  ? — 
has  neither  crushed  his  energy  nor  robbed  England  of 
his  services.     But  it  was  touch  and  go." 

To  all  of  which  the  Dean  had  replied  little  or  nothing. 
But  his  heart  had  sunk  within  him;  and  the  doubtful- 
ness of  a  certain  enterprise  in  which  he  was  engaged  had 
appeared  to  him  in  even  more  startling  colors  than  be- 
fore. 

However,  here  he  was.  And  suddenly,  as  he  stood  be- 
fore the  fire,  he  bowed  his  white  head,  and  said  to  him- 
self a  couple  of  verses  from  one  of  the  Psalms  for  the 
day: 

"  Who  will  lead  me  into  the  strong  city:  who  will  bring  me  into 
Edom? 
Oh, be  thou  our  help  in  trouble:  for  vain  is  the  help  of  man." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  Dean  straightened  himself 
impetuously,  every  nerve  tightening  to  its  work. 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dear  Dean?"  said  Ashe,  enclos- 
ing the  frail,  ascetic  hand  in  both  his  own.  "I  trust 
I  have  not  kept  you  waiting.  My  mother  was  with  me. 
Sit  there,  please;  you  will  have  the  light  behind  you." 

"Thank  you.  I  prefer  standing  a  little,  if  you  don't 
mind — and  I  like  the  fire." 

Ashe  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  hand.  The  Dean  noticed  the  strains  of  gray  in 
his  curly  hair,  and  that  aspect,  as  of  something  withered 
and  wayworn,  which  had  invaded  the  man's  whole 
personalitv,  balanced,  indeed,  by  an  intellectual  dignity 

516  ' 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

and  distinction  which  had  never  been  so  commanding. 
It  was  as  though  the  stern  and  constant  wrestle  of  the 
mind  had  burned  away  all  lesser  things — the  old,  easy 
grace,  the  old,  careless  pleasure  in  life. 

"I  think  you  know,"  began  the  Dean,  clearing  his 
throat,  "why  I  asked  you  to  see  me?" 

"You  wished,  I  think,  to  speak  to  me — about  my 
wife,"  said  Ashe,  with  difficulty. 

Under  his  sheltering  hand,  his  eyes  looked  straight 
before  him  into  the  fire. 

The  Dean  fidgeted  a  moment,  lifted  a  small  Greek 
vase  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  set  it  down — then  turned 
round. 

"I  heard  from  her  ten  days  ago — the  most  piteous 
letter.  As  you  know,  I  had  always  a  great  regard  for 
her.  The  news  of  last  year  was  a  sharp  sorrow  to  me — 
as  though  she  had  been  a  daughter.  I  felt  I  must  see 
her.     So  I  put  myself  into  the  train  and  went  to  Venice." 

Ashe  started  a  little,  but  said  nothing. 

"Or,  rather,  to  Treviso,  for,  as  I  think  you  know,  she 
is  there  with  Lady  Alice." 

"Yes,  that  I  had  heard." 

The  Dean  paused  again,  then  moved  a  little  nearer  to 
Ashe,  looking  down  upon  him. 

"May  I  ask — stop  me  if  I  seem  impertinent — how 
much  you  know  of  the  history  of  the  winter  ?" 

"Very  little!"  said  Ashe,  in  a  low  voice.  "My  mother 
got  some  information  from  the  English  consul  at  Trieste, 
who  is  a  friend  of  hers — to  whom,  it  seems.  Lady  Kitty 
applied;  but  it  did  not  amount  to  much." 

The  Dean  drew  a  small  note  -  book  from  a  breast- 
pocket and  looked  at  some  entries  in  it. 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"They  seem  to  have  reached  Marinitza  in  November 
If  I  understood  aright,  Lady  Kitty  had  no  maid  with 
her?" 

"No.  The  maid  Blanche  was  sent  home  from 
Verona." 

"How  Lady  Kitty  ever  got  through  the  journey! — or 
the  winter!"  said  the  Dean,  throwing  up  his  hands. 
"Her  health,  of  course,  is  irreparably  injured.  But 
that  she  did  not  die  a  dozen  times  over,  of  hardship  and 
misery,  is  the  most  astonishing  thing!  They  were  in  a 
wretched  village,  nearly  four  thousand  feet  up,  a  village 
of  wooden  huts,  with  a  wooden  hospital.  All  the  winter 
nearly  they  were  deep  in  snow,  and  Lady  Kitty  worked 
as  a  nurse.  Cliffe  seems  to  have  been  away  fighting, 
very  often,  and  at  other  times  came  back  to  rest  and 
see  to  supplies." 

"I  understand  she  passed  as  his  wife?"  said  Ashe. 

The  Dean  made  a  sign  of  reluctant  assent. 

"They  lived  in  a  little  house  near  the  hospital.  She 
tells  me  that  after  the  first  two  months  she  began  to 
loathe  him,  and  she  moved  into  the  hospital  to  escape 
him.  He  tried  at  first  to  melt  and  propitiate  her;  but 
when  he  found  that  it  was  no  use,  and  that  she  was 
practically  lost  to  him,  he  changed  his  temper,  and  he 
might  have  behaved  to  her  like  the  tyrant  he  is  but 
that  her  hold  over  the  people  among  whom  they  were 
living,  both  on  the  fighting-men  and  the  women,  had 
become  by  this  time  greater  than  his  own.  They  adored 
her,  and  Cliffe  dared  not  ill-treat  her.  And  so  it  went 
on  through  the  winter.  Sometimes  they  were  on  more 
friendly  terms  than  at  others.  I  gather  that  when  he 
showed  his  dare-devil,  heroic  side  she  would  relent  to 

518 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

him,  and  talk  as  though  she  loved  him.  But  she  would 
never  go  back — to  live  with  him;  and  that  after  a  time 
alienated  him  completely.  He  was  away  more  and 
more;  and  at  last  she  tells  me  there  was  a  handsome 
Bosnian  girl,  and — well,  you  can  imagine  the  rest.  Lady 
Kitty  was  so  ill  in  March  that  they  thought  her  dying, 
but  she  managed  to  write  to  this  consul  you  spoke  of  at 
Trieste,  and  he  sent  up  a  doctor  and  a  nurse.  But  this 
you  probably  know?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ashe,  hoarsely.  "I  heard  that  she  was 
apparently  very  ill  when  she  reached  Treviso,  but  that 
she  had  rallied  under  Alice's  nursing.  Lady  Alice  wrote 
to  my  mother." 

"  Did  she  tell  Lady  Tranmore  anything  of  Lady  Kitty's 
state  of  mind?"  said  the  Dean,  after  a  pause. 

Ashe  also  was  slow  in  answering.     At  last  he  said: 

"I  understand  there  has  been  great  regret  for  the 
past." 

"Regret!"  cried  the  Dean.  "If  ever  there  was  a  ter- 
rible case  of  the  dealings  of  God  with  a  human  soul — " 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  impetuously,  wrestling 
with  emotion. 

"Did  she  give  you  any  explanation,"  said  Ashe, 
presently,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible — "of  their  meet- 
ing at  Verona?  You  know  my  mother  believed — that 
she  had  broken  with  him — that  all  was  saved.  Then 
came  a  letter  from  the  maid,  written  at  Kitty's  direc- 
tion, to  say  that  she  had  left  her  mistress — and  they  had 
started  for  Bosnia." 

"No;  I  tried.  But  she  seemed  to  shrink  with  horror 
from  everything  to  do  with  Verona.  I  have  always  sup- 
posed that  fellow  in  some  way  got  the  information  he 
34  519 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

wanted — bought  it  no  doubt — and  pursued  her.  But 
that  she  honestly  meant  to  break  with  him  I  have  no 
doubt  at  all." 

Ashe  said  nothing, 

"Think,"  said  the  Dean,  "of  the  effect  of  that  man's 
sudden  appearance — of  his  romantic  and  powerful  per- 
sonality—  your  wife  alone,  miserable  —  doubting  your 
love  for  her — " 

Ashe  raised  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  passion, 

"If  she  had  had  the  smallest  love  left  for  me  she 
could  have  protected  herself!  I  had  written  to  her — 
she  knew — " 

His  voice  broke.     The  Dean's  face  quivered. 

"My  dear  fellow — God  knows — "  He  broke  off. 
When  he  recovered  composure  he  said: 

"Let  us  go  back  to  Lady  Kitty.  Regret  is  no  word 
to  express  what  I  saw.  She  is  consumed  by  remorse 
night  and  day.  She  is  also  still — as  far  as  my  eyes  can 
judge — desperately  ill.  There  is  probably  lung  trouble 
caused  by  the  privations  of  the  winter.  And  the  whole 
nervous  system  is  shattered." 

Ashe  looked  up.  His  aspect  showed  the  effect  of  the 
words. 

"  Every  provision  shall  be  made  for  her,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  muffled  and  difficult.  "Lady  Alice  has  been  told 
already  to  spare  no  expense — to  do  everything  that  can 
be  done." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  that  can  be  done  for  her," 
said  the  Dean. 

Ashe  did  not  speak. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  that  you  or  any  one  else 
could  do   for   her,"  the   Dean   repeated,  slowly,  "and 

520 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

that  is   to   love — and   forgive  her!"     His  voice   trem- 
bled. 

"Was  it  her  wish  that  you  should  come  to  me?"  said 
Ashe,  after  a  moment. 

"Yes.  I  found  her  at  first  very  despairing — and 
extremely  difficult  to  manage.  She  regretted  she  had 
written  to  me,  and  neither  Lady  Alice  nor  I  could  get 
her  to  talk.  But  one  day" — the  old  man  turned  away, 
looking  into  the  fire,  with  his  back  to  Ashe,  and  with 
difficulty  pursued  his  story — "one  day,  whether  it  was. 
the  sight  of  a  paralyzed  child  that  used  to  come  to  Lady 
Alice's  lace-class,  or  some  impression  from  the  service 
of  the  mass  to  which  she  often  goes  in  the  early  mornings 
with  her  sister,  I  don't  know,  but  she  sent  for  me — and 
— and  broke  down  entirely.  She  implored  me  to  see 
you,  and  to  ask  you  if  she  might  live  at  Haggart,  near 
the  child's  grave.  She  told  me  that  according  to  every 
doctor  she  has  seen  she  is  doomed,  physically.  But  I 
don't  think  she  wants  to  work  upon  your  pity.  She 
herself  declares  that  she  has  much  more  vitality  than 
people  think,  and  that  the  doctors  may  be  all  wrong. 
So  that  you  are  not  to  take  that  into  account.  But  if 
you  will  so  far  forgive  her  as  to  let  her  live  at  Haggart, 
and  occasionally  to  go  and  see  her,  that  would  be  the 
only  happiness  to  which  she  could  now  look  forward, 
and  she  promises  that  she  will  follow  your  wishes  in 
every  respect,  and  will  not  hinder  or  persecute  you  in 
any  way." 

Ashe  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  melancholy  gesture. 
The  Dean  understood  it  to  mean  a  disbelief  in  the  ability 
of  the  person  promising  to  keep  such  an  engagement. 
His  face  flushed — he  looked  uncertainly  at  Ashe. 

521 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"For  my  part,"  he  said,  quickly,  "I  am  not  going  to 
advise  you  for  a  moment  to  trust  to  any  such  promise." 

Rising  from  his  seat,  Ashe  began  to  pace  the  room. 
The  Dean  followed  him  with  his  eyes,  which  kindled 
more  and  more. 

"But,"  he  resumed,  "I  none  the  less  urge  and  im- 
plore you  to  grant  Lady  Kitty's  prayer." 

Ashe  slightly  shook  his  head.  The  little  Dean  drew 
himself  together. 

"May  I  speak  to  you — with  a  full  frankness?  I  have 
known  and  loved  you  from  a  boy.  And  " — he  stopped  a 
moment,  then  said,  simply — "  I  am  a  Christian  minister." 

Ashe,  with  a  sad  and  charming  courtesy,  laid  his  hand 
on  the  old  man's  arm. 

"I  can  only  be  grateful  to  you,"  he  said,  and  stood 
waiting. 

"At  least  you  will  understand  me,"  said  the  Dean. 
"You  are  not  one  of  the  small  souls.  Well — here  it  is! 
Lady  Kitty  has  been  an  unfaithful  wife.  She  does  not 
attempt  to  deny  or  cover  it.  But  in  my  belief  she  loves 
you  still,  and  has  always  loved  you.  And  when  you 
married  her,  you  must,  I  think,  have  realized  that  you 
were  running  no  ordinary  risks.  The  position  and  an- 
tecedents of  her  mother — the  bringing  up  of  the  poor 
child  herself — the  wildness  of  her  temperament,  and  the 
absence  of  anything  like  self -discipline  and  self-control, 
must  surely  have  made  you  anxious  ?  I  certainly  re- 
member that  Lady  Tranmore  was  full  of  fears." 

He  looked  for  a  reply. 

"Yes,"  said  Ashe,  "I  was  anxious.  Or,  rather,  I  saw 
the  risks  clearly.  But  I  was  in  love,  and  I  thought  that 
love  could  do  everything." 

522 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

The  Dean  looked  at  him  curiously — hesitated — and  at 
last  said: 

"Forgive  me.  Did  you  take  your  task  seriously 
enough?  —  did  you  give  Lady  Kitty  all  the  help  you 
might  ?" 

The  blue  eyes  scanned  Ashe's  face.  Ashe  turned 
away,  as  though  the  words  had  touched  a  sore. 

"I  know  very  well,"  he  said,  unsteadily,  "that  I 
seemed  to  you  and  others  a  weak  and  self-indulgent  fool. 
All  I  can  say  is,  it  was  not  in  me  to  play  the  tutor  and 
master  to  my  wife." 

"She  was  so  young,  so  undisciplined,"  said  the  Dean, 
earnestly.     "Did  you  guard  her  as  you  might?" 

A  touch  of  impatience  appeared  in  Ashe. 

"Do  you  really  think,  my  dear  Dean,"  he  said,  as  he 
resumed  his  walk  up  and  down,  "that  one  human  being 
has,  ultimately,  any  decisive  power  over  another  ?  If  so, 
I  am  more  of  a  believer  in — fate — or  liberty — I  am  not 
sure  which— than  you." 

The  Dean  sighed. 

"That  you  were  infinitely  good  and  loving  to  her  we 
all  know." 

"'Good' — 'loving'?"  said  Ashe,  under  his  breath, 
with  a  note  of  scorn.     "I—" 

He  restrained  himself,  hiding  his  face  as  he  hung 
over  the  fire. 

There  was  a  silence,  till  the  Dean  once  more  placed 
himself  in  Ashe's  path.  "  My  dear  friend — you  saw  the 
risks,  and  yet  you  took  them!  You  made  the  vow  'for 
better,  for  worse.'  My  friend,  you  have,  so  to  speak, 
lost  your  venture!  But  let  me  urge  on  you  that  the 
obligation  remains!" 

523 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"What  obligation?" 

"The  obligation  to  the  life  you  took  into  your  own 
hands — to  the  soul  you  vowed  to  cherish,"  said  the 
Dean,  with  an  apostolic  and  passionate  earnestness. 

Ashe  stood  before  him,  pale,  and  charged  with  resolu- 
tion. 

"That  obligation — has  been  cancelled — by  the  laws  of 
your  own  Christian  faith,  no  less  than  by  the  ordinary 
laws  of  society." 

"I  do  not  so  read  it!"  cried  the  Dean,  with  vivacity. 
"Men  say  so,  ' for  the  hardness  of  their  hearts.'  But  the 
divine  pity  which  transformed  men's  idea  of  marriage 
could  never  have  meant  to  lay  it  down  that  in  marriage 
alone  there  was  to  be  no  forgiveness." 

"You  forget  your  text,"  said  Ashe,  steadily.  "'Sav- 
ing for  the  cause — '"     His  voice  failed  him. 

"Permissive!"  was  the  Dean's  eager  reply — "per- 
missive only.  There  are  cases,  I  grant  you — cases  of 
impenitent  wickedness — where  the  higher  law  is  sus- 
pended, finds  no  chance  to  act — where  relief  from  the 
bond  is  itself  mercy  and  justice.  But  the  higher  law  is 
always  there.  You  know  the  formula — '  It  was  said  by 
them  of  old  time.  But  /  say  unto  you — *  And  then 
follows  the  new  law  of  a  new  society.  And  so  in  mar- 
riage. If  love  has  the  smallest  room  to  work — if  for- 
giveness can  find  the  narrowest  foothold — love  and  for- 
giveness are  imposed  on — demanded  of — the  Christian! 
— here  as  everywhere  else.  Love  and  forgiveness — not 
penalty  and  hate!" 

"There  is  no  question  of  hate  —  and  —  I  doubt 
whether  I  am  a  Christian,"  said  Ashe,  quietly,  turning 
away. 

524 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

The  Dean  looked  at  him  a  Httle  askance — breathing 
fast. 

"But  you  are  a  heart,  WilHam!"  he  said,  using  the 
privilege  of  his  white  hairs,  speaking  as  he  might  have 
spoken  to  the  Eton  boy  of  twenty  years  before — "ay, 
and  one  of  the  noblest.  You  gathered  that  poor  thing 
into  your  arms — knowing  what  were  the  temptations 
of  her  nature,  and  she  became  the  mother  of  your  child. 
Now — alas!  those  temptations  have  conquered  her.  But 
she  still  turns  to  you — she  still  clings  to  you — and  she 
has  no  one  else.  And  if  you  reject  her  she  will  go  down 
unforgiven  and  despairing  to  the  grave." 

For  the  first  time  Ashe's  lips  trembled.  But  his 
speech  was  very  quiet  and  collected. 

"I  must  try  and  explain  myself,"  he  said.  "Why 
should  we  talk  of  forgiveness?  It  is  not  a  word  that  I 
much  understand,  or  that  means  much  to  men  of  my 
type  and  generation.  I  see  what  has  happened  in  this 
way.  Kitty's  conduct  last  year  hit  me  desperately  hard. 
It  destroyed  my  private  happiness,  and  but  for  the 
generosity  of  the  best  friends  ever  man  had  it  would 
have  driven  me  out  of  public  life.  I  warned  her  that 
the  consequences  of  the  Cliffe  matter  would  be  irrepar- 
able, and  she  still  carried  it  through.  She  left  me  for 
that  man — and  at  a  time  when  by  her  own  action  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  defend  either  her  or  myself.  What 
course  of  action  remained  to  me?  I  did  remember  her 
temperament,  her  antecedents,  and  the  certainty  that 
this  man,  whatever  might  be  his  moments  of  heroism, 
was  a  selfish  and  incorrigible  brute  in  his  dealings  with 
women.  So  I  wrote  to  her,  through  this  same  consul 
at  Trieste.     I  let  her  know  that  if  she  wished  it,  and 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

if  there  were  any  chance  of  his  marrying  her,  I  would 
begin  divorce  proceedings  at  once.  She  had  only  to  say 
the  word.  If  she  did  not  wish  it,  I  would  spare  her  and 
myself  the  shame  and  scandal  of  publicity.  And  if  she 
left  him,  I  would  make  additional  provision  for  her 
which  would  insure  her  every  comfort.  She  never  sent 
a  word  of  reply,  and  I  have  taken  no  steps.  But  as 
soon  as  I  heard  she  was  at  Treviso,  I  wrote  again — or, 
rather,  this  time  my  lawyers  wrote,  suggesting  that 
the  time  had  come  for  the  extra  provision  I  had 
spoken  of,  which  I  was  most  ready  and  anxious  to 
make." 

He  paused. 

"And  this,"  said  the  Dean,  "is  all?  This  is,  in  fact, 
your  answer  to  me?" 

Ashe  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

"Except,"  he  added,  with  emotion,  "that  I  have 
heard,  only  to-day,  that  if  Kitty  wishes  it,  her  old  friend 
Miss  French  will  go  out  to  her  at  once,  nurse  her,  and 
travel  with  her  as  long  as  she  pleases.  Miss  French's 
brother  has  just  married,  and  she  is  at  liberty.  She  is 
most  deeply  attached  to  Kitty,  and  as  soon  as  she  heard 
Lady  Alice's  report  of  her  state  she  forgot  everything 
else.  Can  you  not  persuade  —  Kitty" — he  looked  up 
urgently — "to  accept  her  offer?" 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  the  Dean,  sadly.  "There  is  only 
one  thing  she  pines  for,  and  without  it  she  will  be  a  sick 
child  crossed.  Ah!  well — well!  So  to  allow  her  to  share 
your  life  again — ^however  humbly  and  intermittently — 
is  impossible?" 

It  seemed  to  the  Dean  that  a  shudder  passed  through 
the  man  beside  him. 

526 


The    Marriage    of  William   Ashe 

"Impossible,"  said  Ashe,  sharply.  "But  not  only  for 
private  reasons." 

"You  mean  your  public  duty  stands  in  the  way?" 

"  Kitty  left  me  of  her  own  free  will.  I  have  put  my 
hand  to  the  plough  again — and  I  cannot  turn  back. 
You  can  see  for  yourself  that  I  am  not  at  my  own  dis- 
posal— I  belong  to  my  party,  to  the  men  with  whom  I 
act,  who  have  behaved  to  me  with  the  utmost  gener- 
osity." 

"Of  course  Lady  Kitty  could  no  longer  share  your 
public  life.     But  at  Haggart — in  seclusion?" 

"You  know  what  her  personality  is — how  absorbing 
— how  impossible  to  forget!  No — if  she  returned  to 
me,  on  any  terms  whatever,  all  the  old  conditions  would 
begin  again.  I  should  inevitably  have  to  leave  poli- 
tics." 

"And  that — you  are  not  prepared  to  do?" 

The  Dean  wondered  at  his  own  audacity,  and  a  touch 
of  proud  surprise  expressed  itself  in  Ashe. 

"I  should  have  preferred  to  put  it  that  I  have  ac- 
cepted great  tasks  and  heavy  responsibilities — and  that 
I  am  not  my  own  master." 

The  Dean  watched  him  closely.  Across  the  field  of 
imagination  there  passed  the  figure  of  one  who  "went 
away  sorrowful,  having  great  possessions,"  and  his  heart 
— the  heart  of  a  child  or  a  knight-errant — burned  within 
him. 

But  before  he  could  speak  again  the  door  of  the  room 
opened  and  a  lady  in  black  entered.  Ashe  turned 
towards  her. 

"Do  you  forbid  me,  William?"  she  said,  quietly — "or 
may  I  join  your  conversation?" 

527 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Ashe  held  out  his  hand  and  drew  her  to  him.  Lady 
Tranmore  greeted  her  old  friend  the  Dean,  and  he  looked 
at  her  overcome  with  emotion  and  doubt. 

"You  have  come  to  us  at  a  critical  moment,"  he  said 
- — "  and  I  am  afraid  you  are  against  me." 

She  asked  what  they  had  been  discussing,  though, 
indeed,  as  she  said,  she  partly  guessed.  And  the  Dean, 
beginning  to  be  shaken  in  his  own  cause,  repeated  his 
pleadings  with  a  sinking  heart.  They  sounded  to  him 
stranger  and  less  persuasive  than  before.  In  doing  what 
he  had  done  he  had  been  influenced  by  an  instinctive 
feeling  that  Ashe  would  not  treat  the  wrong  done  him  as 
other  men  might  treat  it ;  that,  to  put  it  at  the  least,  he 
would  be  able  to  handle  it  with  an  ethical  originality,  to 
separate  himself  in  dealing  with  it  from  the  mere  weight 
of  social  tradition.  Yet  now  as  he  saw  the  faces  of 
mother  and  son  together ^ — the  mother  leaning  on  the 
son's  arm — and  realized  all  the  strength  of  the  social 
ideas  which  they  represented,  even  though,  in  Ashe's 
case,  there  had  been  a  certain  individual  flouting  of  them, 
futile  and  powerless  in  the  end — the  Dean  gave  way. 

"There — there!"  he  said,  as  he  finished  his  plea,  and 
Lady  Tranmore's  sad  gravity  remained  untouched.  "I 
see  you  both  think  me  a  dreamer  of  dreams!" 

"Nay,  dear  friend!"  said  Lady  Tranmore,  with  the 
melancholy  smile  which  lent  still  further  beauty  to  the 
refined  austerity  of  her  face;  "these  things  seem  pos- 
sible to  you,  because  you  are  the  soul  of  goodness — " 

"And  a  pious  old  fool  to  boot!"  said  the  Dean,  im- 
patiently. "But  I  am  willing — like  St.  Paul  and  my 
betters — to  be  a  fool  for  Christ's  sake.  Lady  Tranmore, 
are  you  or  are  you  not  a  Christian?" 

528 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  with  composure,  while  her  cheek 
flushed.  "  But  our  Lord  did  not  ask  impossibiHties.  He 
knew  there  were  limits  to  human  endurance- — and  hu- 
man pardon — though  there  might  be  none  to  God's." 

"  'Be  ye  perfect,  as  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  is 
perfect,' "  cried  the  Dean*.    "  Where  are  the  limits  there  ?" 

"There  are  other  duties  in  life  besides  that  to  a  wife 
who  has  betrayed  her  husband,"  she  said,  steadily. 
"You  ask  of  William  what  he  has  not  the  strength  to 
give.  His  life  was  wrecked,  and  he  has  pieced  it  to- 
gether again.  And  now  he  has  given  it  to  his  country. 
That  poor,  guilty  child  has  no  claim  upon  it." 

"But  understand,"  said  Ashe,  interposing,  with  an 
energy  that  seemed  to  express  the  whole  man — "while  I 
live,  everything — short  of  what  you  ask — that  can  be 
done  to  protect  or  ease  her,  shall  be  done.  Tell  her 
that." 

His  features  worked  painfully.  The  Dean  took  up  his 
hat  and  stick. 

"And  may  I  tell  her,  too,"  he  said,  pausing — "that 
you  forgive  her?" 

Ashe  hesitated. 

"I  do  not  believe,"  he  said,  at  last,  "that  she  would 
attach  any  more  meaning  to  that  word  than  I  do.  She 
would  think  it  unreal.     What's  done  is  done." 

The  Dean's  heart  leaped  up  in  the  typical  Christian 
challenge  to  the  fatal  and  the  irrevocable.  While  life 
lasts  the  lost  sheep  can  always  be  sought  and  found; 
and  love,  the  mystical  wine,  can  always  be  poured  into 
the  wounds  of  the  soul,  healing  and  recreating!  But  he 
said  no  more.     He  felt  himself  humiliated  and  defeated. 

Ashe  and  Lady  Tranmore  took  leave  of  him  with  an 

529 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

extreme  gentleness  and  affection.  He  would  almost 
rather  they  had  treated  him  ill.  Yes,  he  was  an  optimist 
and  a  dreamer! — one  who  had,  indeed,  never  grappled  in 
his  own  person  with  the  worst  poisons  and  corrosions 
of  the  soul.  Yet  still,  as  he  passed  along  the  London 
streets — marked  here  and  there  by  the  newspaper 
placards  which  announced  Ashe's  committee  triumphs 
of  the  night  before — he  was  haunted  anew  by  the  im- 
mortal words: 

"One  thing  thou  lackest,"  .  .  .  and  "Come,  follow 
me!" 

Ah! — could  he  have  done  such  a  thing  himself?  or  was 
he  merely  the  scribe  carelessly  binding  on  other  men's 
shoulders  things  grievous  to  be  borne  ?  The  answering 
passion  of  his  faith  mounted  within  him — joined  with  a 
scorn  for  the  easy  conditions  and  happy,  scholarly  pur- 
suits of  his  own  life,  and  a  thirst  which  in  the  early  daya 
of  Christendom  would  have  been  a  thirst  for  witness  and 
for  martyrdom. 

Three  days  later  the  Dean  —  a  somewhat  shrunken 
and  diminished  figure,  in  ordinary  clerical  dress,  with- 
out the  buckles  and  silk  stockings  that  typically  belong- 
ed to  him — stood  once  more  at  the  entrance  of  a  small 
villa  outside  the  Venetian  town  of  Treviso. 

He  was  very  weary,  and  as  he  sought  disconsolately 
through  all  his  pockets  for  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his 
fly,  while  the  spring  rain  pattered  on  his  wide-awake,  he 
produced  an  impression  as  of  some  delicate,  draggled 
thing,  which  would  certainly  have  gone  to  the  heart  of 
his  adoring  wife  could  she  have  beheld  it.     The  Dean's 

S30 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

ways  were  not  sybaritic.  He  pecked  at  food  and  drink 
like  a  bird;  his  clothes  never  caused  him  a  moment's 
thought;  and  it  seemed  to  him  a  waste  of  the  night  to 
use  it  for  sleeping.  But  none  the  less  did  he  go  through 
life  finely  looked  after.  Mrs.  Winston  dressed  him,  took 
his  tickets  and  paid  his  cabs,  and  without  her  it  was  an 
arduous  matter  for  the  Dean  to  arrive  at  any  destina- 
tion whatever.  As  it  was,  in  the  journey  from  Paris 
he  had  lost  one  of  the  two  bags  which  Mrs.  Winston 
had  packed  for  him,  and  he  looked  remorsefully  at  the 
survivor  as  it  was  deposited  on  the  steps  beside  him. 

It  did  not,  however,  remain  on  the  steps.  For  when 
Lady  Alice's  maid-housekeeper  appeared,  she  informed 
the  Dean,  with  a  certain  flurry  of  manner,  that  the  ladies 
were  not  at  home.  They  had  gone  off  that  morning — 
suddenly — to  Venice,  leaving  a  letter  for  him,  should  he 
arrive. 

"  Fermate!"  cried  the  Dean,  turning  towards  the  cab, 
which  was  trailing  away,  and  the  man,  who  had  been 
scandalously  overpaid,  came  back  with  alacrity,  while 
the  Dean  stepped  in  to  read  the  letter. 

When  he  came  out  again  he  was  very  pale  and  in 
a  great  haste.  He  bade  the  man  replace  the  bag  and 
drive  him  at  once  to  the  railway -station. 

On  the  way  thither  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  Hor- 
rible!—  horrible!" — and  both  the  letter  and  a  news- 
paper which  had  been  enclosed  in  it  shook  in  his  hands. 

He  had  half  an  hour  to  wait  before  the  advent  of  the 
evening  train  for  Venice,  and  he  spent  it  in  a  quiet  cor- 
ner poring  over  the  newspaper.  And  not  that  news- 
paper only,  for  he  presently  became  aware  that  all  the 
small,  ill-printed  sheets  offered  him  by  an  old  news  vender 

531 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

in  the  station  were  full  of  the  same  news,  and  some  with 
later  detail — nay,  that  the  people  walking  up  and  down 
in  the  station  were  eagerly  talking  of  it. 

An  Englishman  had  been  assassinated  in  Venice.  It 
seemed  that  a  body  had  been  discovered  early  on  the 
preceding  morning  floating  in  one  of  the  small  canals 
connecting  the  Fondamente  Nuove  with  the  Grand 
Canal.  It  had  been  stabbed  in  three  places;  two  of  the 
wounds  must  have  been  fatal.  The  papers  in  the  pock- 
et identified  the  murdered  man  as  the  famous  English 
traveller,  poet,  and  journalist.  Mr.  Geoffrey  Cliffe.  Mr, 
Cliffe  had  just  returned  from  an  arduous  winter  in  the 
Balkans,  where  he  had  rendered  superb  service  to  the 
cause  of  the  Bosnian  insurgents.  He  was  well  known  in 
Venice,  and  the  terrible  event  had  caused  a  profound 
sensation  there.  No  clew  to  the  outrage  had  yet  been 
obtained.  But  Mr.  Cliffe's  purse  and  watch  had  not 
been  removed. 

The  Dean  arrived  in  Venice  by  the  midnight  train, and 
went  to  the  hotel  on  the  Riva  whither  Lady  Alice  had 
directed  him.  She  was  still  up,  waiting  to  see  him,  and 
in  the  dark  passage  outside  Kitty's  door  she  told  him 
what  she  knew  of  the  murder.  It  appeared  that  late  that 
night  a  startling  arrest  had  been  made — -of  no  less  a 
person  than  the  Signorina  Ricci,  the  well-known  actress 
of  the  Apollo  Theatre,  and  of  two  men  supposed  to  have 
been  hired  by  her  for  the  deed.  This  news  was  still  un- 
known to  Kitty — she  was  in  bed,  and  her  companion  had 
kept  it  from  her. 

"How  is  she?"  asked  the  Dean. 

"Frightfully  excited — or  else  dumb.  She  let  me  give 
her  something  to  make  her  sleep.     Strangely  enough, 

532 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

she  said  to  me  this  morning  on  the  way  from  Treviso: 
'It  is  a  woman — and  I  know  her!'  " 

The  following  day,  when  the  Dean  entered  the  dingy 
hotel  sitting-room,  a  thin  figure  in  black  came  hurriedly 
out  of  the  bedroom  beside  it,  and  Kitty  caught  him  by 
the  hand. 

"Isn't  it  horrible?"  she  said,  staring  at  him  with  her 
changed,  dark-rimmed  eyes.  "She  tried  once,  in  Bosnia. 
One  of  the  Italians  who  came  out  with  us — she  had  got 
hold  of  him.     Do  you  think — he  suffered?" 

Her  voice  was  quite  quiet.     The  Dean  shuddered. 

"One  of  the  stabs  was  in  the  heart,"  he  said.  "But 
try  and  put  it  from  you,  Lady  Kitty.  Sit  down."  He 
touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

Kitty  nodded. 

"Ah,  then,"  she  said — "then  he  couldn't  have  suffered 
— could  he?     I'm  glad." 

She  let  the  Dean  put  her  in  a  chair,  and,  clasping  her 
hands  round  her  knees,  she  seemed  to  pursue  her  own 
thoughts. 

Her  aspect  affected  him  almost  beyond  bearing. 
Ashe's  brilliant  wife  ?  —  London's  spoiled  child  ?  —  this 
withered,  tragic  little  creature,  of  whom  it  was  impossible 
to  believe  that,  in  years,  she  was  not  yet  twenty-four? 
So  bewildered  in  mind,  so  broken  in  nerve  was  she,  that 
it  was  not  till  he  had  sat  with  her  some  time,  now  enter- 
ing perforce  into  the  cloud  of  horror  that  brooded  over 
her,  now  striving  to  drag  her  from  it,  that  she  asked  him 
about  his  visit  to  England. 

He  told  her  in  a  faltering  voice. 

She  received  it  very  quietly,  even  with  a  little,  queer, 
twisting  laugh, 

533 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

"  I  thought  he  wouldn't.    Was  Lady  Tranmore  there  ?" 

The  Dean  repHed  that  Lady  Tranmore  had  been  there. 

"Ah,  then,  of  course  there  was  no  chance,"  said  Kitty. 
"When  one  is  as  good  as  that,  one  never  forgives." 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "  Did  William  say  he  forgave 
me?" 

The  Dean  hesitated. 

"He  said  a  great  deal  that  was  kind  and  generous." 

A  slight  spasm  passed  over  Kitty's  face. 

"I  suppose  he  thought  it  ridiculous  to  talk  of  for- 
giving.    So  did  I — once." 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands — removing  them 
to  say,  impatiently: 

"One  can't  go  on  being  sorry  every  moment  of  the 
day.  No,  one  can't!  Why  are  we  made  so?  William 
would  agree  with  me  there." 

"Dear  Lady  Kitty!"  said  the  Dean,  tenderly — "God 
forgives — and  with  Him  there  is  always  hope,  and  fresh 
beginning." 

Kitty  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know  what  that  means,"  she  said.  "I  won- 
der whether  " — she  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  piteous 
and  yet  affectionate  malice — "if  you'd  been  as  deep  as 
I,  whether  you'd  know." 

The  Dean  flushed.  The  hidden  wound  stung  again. 
Had  he,  then,  no  right  to  speak?  He  felt  himself  the 
elder  son  of  the  parable — and  hated  himself  anew. 

But  he  was  a  Christian,  on  his  Master's  business.  He 
must  obey  orders,  even  though  he  could  feel  no  satis- 
faction, or  belief  in  himself — though  he  seem  to  himself 
such  a  shallow  and  perfunctory  person.  So  he  did  his 
tender  best  for  Kitty,     He  spent  his  loving,  enthusias- 

534 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

tic,  pitiful  soul  upon  her;  and  while  he  talked  to  her  she 
sat  with  her  hands  crossed  on  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  wan- 
dering through  the  open  window  to  the  forests  of  masts 
outside  and  the  dancing  wavelets  of  the  lagoon.  When 
at  last  he  spoke  of  the  further  provision  Ashe  wished  to 
make  for  her,  when  he  implored  her  to  summon  Mar- 
garet French,  she  shook  her  head.  "I  must  think  what 
I  shall  do,"  she  said,  quietly;  and  a  minute  afterwards, 
with  a  flash  of  her  old  revolt — "He  cannot  prevent  my 
going  to  Harry's  grave!" 

Early  the  following  morning  the  murdered  man  was 
carried  to  the  cemetery  at  San  Michele.  In  spite  of 
some  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  police  to  keep  the  hour 
secret,  half  Venice  followed  the  black -draped  barca, 
which  bore  that  flawed  poet  and  dubious  hero  to  his  rest. 

It  was  a  morning  of  exceeding  beauty.  On  the  mean 
and  solitary  front  of  the  Casa  dei  Spiriti  there  shone  a 
splendor  of  light ;  the  lagoon  was  azure  and  gold ;  the 
main-land  a  mist  of  trees  in  their  spring  leaf;  while  far 
away  the  cypresses  of  San  Francesco,  the  slender  tower 
of  Torcello,  and  the  long  line  of  Murano — and  farther 
still  the  majestic  wall  of  silver  Alps — greeted  the  eyes 
that  loved  them,  as  the  ear  is  soothed  by  the  notes  of  a 
glorious  and  yet  familiar  music. 

Amid  the  crowd  of  gondolas  that  covered  the  shallow 
stretch  of  lagoon  between  the  northernmost  houses  of 
Venice  and  the  island  graveyard,  there  was  one  which 
held  two  ladies.  Alice  Wensleydale  was  there  against 
her  will,  and  her  pinched  and  tragic  face  showed  her 
repulsion  and  irritation.  She  had  endeavored  in  vain 
to  dissuade  Kitty  from  coming;  but  in  the  end  she  had 

535 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

insisted  on  accompanying  her.  Possibly,  as  the  boat 
glided  over  the  water  amid  a  crowd  of  laughing,  chatter- 
ing Italians,  the  silent  Englishwoman  was  asking  herself 
what  was  to  be  the  future  of  the  trust  she  had  taken 
on  herself.  Kitty  in  her  extremity  had  remembered 
her  half-sister's  promise,  and  had  thrown  herself  upon 
it.  But  a  few  weeks'  experience  had  shown  that  they 
were  strange  and  uncongenial  to  each  other.  There 
was  no  true  affection  between  them — only  a  certain 
haunting  instinct  of  kindred.  And  even  this  was 
weakened  or  embittered  b}^  those  memories  in  Alice's 
mind  which  Kitty  could  never  approach  and  Alice 
never  forget.  What  was  she  to  do  with  her  half-sister, 
stranded  and  dishonored  as  she  was? — How  content  or 
comfort  her  ? — How  live  her  own  life  beside  her  ? 

Kitty  sat  silent,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  barca  which 
held  the  coffin  under  its  pall.  Her  mind  was  the  scene 
of  an  infinite  number  of  floating  and  fragmentary  recol- 
lections; of  the  day  when  she  and  Cliffe  had  followed 
the  murazzi  towards  the  open  sea;  of  the  meeting  at 
Verona;  of  the  long  winter,  with  its  hardship  and  its 
horror;  and  that  hatred  and  contempt  which  had  sprung 
up  between  them.  Could  she  love  no  one,  cling  faith- 
fully to  no  one?  And  now  the  restless  brain,  the  vast 
projects,  the  mixed  nature,  the  half-greatness  of  the 
man  had  been  silenced — crushed — in  a  moment,  by  the 
stroke  of  a  knife.  He  had  been  killed  by  a  jealous 
woman — because  of  his  supposed  love  for  another  wom- 
an, whose  abhorrence,  in  truth,  he  had  earned  in  a  few 
short  weeks.  There  was  something  absurd  mingled 
with  the  horror — as  though  one  watched  the  prank  of 
a  demon. 

536 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Her  sensuous  nature  was  tormented  by  the  thought 
of  the  last  moment.  Had  he  had  time  to  feel  despair — 
the  thirst  for  Ufe  ?  She  prayed  not.  She  thought  of  the 
Sunday  afternoon  at  Grosville  Park  when  they  had  tried 
to  play  billiards,  and  Lord  Grosville  had  come  down  on 
them;  or  she  saw  him  sitting  opposite  to  her,  at  supper, 
on  the  night  of  the  fancy  ball,  in  the  splendid  Titian 
dress,  while  she  gloated  over  the  thoughts  of  the  trick 
she  had  played  on  Mary  Lyster  —  or  bending  over  her 
when  she  woke  from  her  swoon  at  Verona.  Had  she 
ever  really  loved  him  for  one  hour? — and  if  not,  what 
possible  excuse,  before  gods  or  men,  was  there  for  this 
ugly,  self -woven  tragedy  into  which  she  had  brought 
herself  and  him,  merely  because  her  vanity  could  not 
bear  that  William  had  not  been  able  to  love  her,  for 
long,  far  above  all  her  deserts? 

William!  Her  heart  leaped  in  her  breast.  He  was 
thirty-six  —  and  she  not  twenty-four.  A  strange  and 
desolate  wonder  overtook  her  as  the  thought  seized  her 
of  the  years  they  might  still  spend  on  the  same  earth — 
members  of  the  same  country,  breathing  the  same  air — 
and  yet  forever  separate.  Never  to  see  him — or  speak 
to  him  again! — the  thought  stirred  her  imagination,  as 
it  were,  while  it  tortured  her;  there  was  in  it  a  certain 
luxury  and  romance  of  pain. 

Thus,  as  she  followed  Cliffe  to  his  last  blood-stained 
rest,  did  her  mind  sink  in  dreams  of  Ashe — and  in  the 
dismal  reckoning  up  of  all  that  she  had  so  lightly  and 
inconceivably  lost.  Sometimes  she  found  herself  ab- 
sorbed in  a  kind  of  angry  marvelling  at  the  strength  of 
the  old  moral  commonplaces. 

It  had  been  so  easy  and  so  exciting  to  defy  them. 
537 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Stones  which  the  builders  of  Hfe  reject — do  they  still 
avenge  themselves  in  the  old  way?  There  was  a  kind 
of  rage  in  the  thought. 

On  the  way  home  Kitty  expressed  a  wish  to  go  into 
St.  Mark's  alone.  Lady  Alice  left  her  there,  and  in  the 
shadow  of  the  atrium  Kitty  looked  at  her  strangely,  and 
kissed  her. 

An  hour  after  Lady  Alice  had  reached  the  hotel  a 
letter  was  brought  to  her.  In  it  Kitty  bade  her — and 
the  Dean — farewell,  and  asked  that  no  effort  should  be 
made  to  track  her.  "I  am  going  to  friends — v/here  I 
shall  be  safe  and  at  peace.  Thank  you  both  with  all  my 
heart.     Let  no  one  think  about  me  any  more." 

Of  course  they  disobeyed  her.  They  made  what 
search  in  Venice  they  could,  without  rousing  a  scandal, 
and  Ashe  rushed  out  to  join  it,  using  the  special  means 
at  a  minister's  disposal.  But  it  was  fruitless.  Kitty 
vanished  like  a  wraith  in  the  dawn;  and  the  living 
world  of  action  and  affairs  knew  her  no  more. 


XXIV 

WELL,  I  must  have  a  carriage!"  said  William 
Ashe  to  the  landlord  of  one  of  the  coaching  inns 
of  Domo  Dossola — "  and  if  you  can't  give  me  one  for 
less,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  pay  this  most  ridiculous 
charge.     Tell  the  man  to  put  to  at  once." 

The  landlord  who  owned  the  carriages,  and  would 
be  sitting  snugly  at  home  while  the  peasant  on  the  box 
faced  the  elements  in  consideration  of  a  large  number 
of  extra  francs  to  his  master,  retired  with  a  deferential 
smile,  and  told  Emilio  to  bring  the  horses. 

Meanwhile  Ashe  finished  an  indifferent  dinner,  paid  a 
large  bill,  and  went  out  to  survey  the  preparations  for 
departure,  so  far  as  the  pelting  rain  in  the  court-yard 
would  let  him.  He  was  going  over  the  Simplon,  start- 
ing rather  late  in  the  day,  and  the  weather  was  abomin- 
able. His  valet,  Richard  Dell,  kept  watch  over  the 
luggage  and  encouraged  the  ostlers,  with  a  fairly  stoical 
countenance.  He  was  an  old  traveller,  and  though  he 
would  have  preferred  not  to  travel  in  a  deluge,  he  dis- 
liked Italy,  as  a  country  of  sour  wine,  and  would  be 
glad  to  find  himself  across  the  Alps.  Moreover,  he  knew 
the  decision  of  his  master's  character,  and,  being  a  man 
of  some  ability  and  education,  he  took  a  pride  in  the 
loftiness  of  the  affairs  on  which  Ashe  was  generally  en- 
gaged.    If  Mr.  Ashe  said  that  he  must  get  to  Geneva 

539 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

the  following  morning,  and  to  London  the  morning  after, 

on  important  business — why,  he  must,  and  it  was  no 
good  talking  about  weather. 

They  rattled  off  through  the  streets  of  Domo  Dossola, 
Dell  in  front  with  the  driver,  under  a  waterproof  hood 
and  apron,  Ashe  in  the  closed  landau  behind,  with  a 
plentiful  supply  of  books,  newspapers,  and  cigars  to 
while  away  the  time. 

At  Isella,  the  frontier  village,  he  took  advantage  of 
the  custom-house  formalities  and  of  a  certain  lull  in  the 
storm  to  stroll  a  little  in  front  of  the  inn.  On  the  Italian 
side,  looking  east,  there  was  a  certain  wild  lifting  of  the 
clouds,  above  the  lower  course  of  the  stream  descending 
from  the  Gondo  ravine;  upon  the  distant  meadows  and 
mountain  slopes  that  marked  the  opening  of  the  Tosa 
valley,  storm-lights  came  and  went,  like  phantom  deer 
chased  by  the  storm-clouds ;  beside  him  the  swollen  river 
thundered  past,  seeking  a  thirsty  Italy;  and  behind, 
over  the  famous  Gondo  cleft,  lay  darkness,  and  a  pelting 
tumult  of  rain. 

Ashe  turned  back  to  the  carriage,  bidding  a  silent 
farewell  to  a  country  he  did  not  love — a  country  mainly 
significant  to  him  of  memories  which  rose  like  a  harsh 
barrier  between  his  present  self  and  a  time  when  he,  too, 
fleeted  life  carelessly,  like  other  men,  and  found  every 
hour  delightful.  Never,  as  long  as  he  lived,  should  he 
come  willingly  to  Italy.  But  his  mother  this  year  had 
fallen  into  such  an  exhaustion  of  body  and  mind,  caused 
by  his  father's  long  agony,  that  he  had  persuaded  her  to 
let  him  carry  her  over  the  Alps  to  Stresa — a  place  she 
had  known  as  a  girl  and  of  which  she  often  spoke — for 
a  Whitsuntide  holiday.     He  himself  was  no  longer  in 

S40 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

office.  A  coalition  between  the  Tories  and  certain  dis- 
sident Liberals  had  turned  ort  Lord  Parham's  govern- 
ment in  the  course  of  a  stormy  autumn  session,  some 
eight  months  before.  It  had  been  succeeded  by  a  weak 
administration,  resting  on  two  or  three  loosely  knit 
groups — with  Ashe  as  leader  of  the  Opposition.  Hence 
his  comparative  freedom,  and  the  chance  to  be  his 
mother's  escort. 

But  at  Stresa  he  had  been  overtaken  by  some  star- 
tling political  news — news  which  seemed  to  foreshadow  an 
almost  immediate  change  of  ministry;  and  urgent  tele- 
grams bade  him  return  at  once.  The  coalition  on  which 
the  government  relied  had  broken  down ;  the  resignation 
of  its  chief,  a  "transient  and  embarrassed  phantom," 
was  imminent;  and  it  was  practically  certain,  in  the 
singular  dearth  of  older  men  on  his  own  side,  since  the 
retirement  of  Lord  Parham,  that  within  a  few  weeks, 
if  not  days,  Ashe  would  be  called  upon  to  form  an  ad- 
ministration, ... 

The  carriage  was  soon  on  its  way  again,  and  presently, 
in  the  darkness  of  the  superb  ravine  that  stretches  west 
and  north  from  Gondo,  the  tumult  of  wind  and  water  was 
such  that  even  Ashe's  slackened  pulses  felt  the  excite- 
ment of  it.  He  left  the  carriage,  and,  wrapped  in  a 
waterproof  cape,  breasted  the  wind  along  the  water's 
edge.  Wordsworth's  magnificent  lines  in  the  "  Pre- 
lude," dedicated  to  this  very  spot,  came  back  to  him, 
as  to  one  who  in  these  later  months  had  been  able  to 
renew  some  of  the  literary  habits  and  recollections  of 
earlier  years 

" — Ttimult  and  peace,  the  darkness  and  the  light  I" 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

But  here  on  this  wild  night  were  only  tumult  and 
darkness;  and  if  Nature  in  this  aspect  were  still  to  be 
held,  as  Wordsworth  makes  her,  the  Voice  and  Apoc- 
alpyse  of  God,  she  breathed  a  power  pitiless  and  ter- 
rible to  man.  The  fierce  stream  below,  the  tiny  speck 
made  by  the  carriage  and  horses  straining  against  the 
hurricane  of  wind,  the  forests  on  the  farther  bank  climb- 
ing to  endless  heights  of  rain,  the  flowers  in  the  rock 
crannies  lashed  and  torn,  the  gloom  and  chill  which  had 
thus  blotted  out  a  June  evening:  all  these  impressions 
were  impressions  of  war,  of  struggle  and  attack,  of  forces 
unfriendly  and  overwhelming. 

A  certain  restless  and  melancholy  joy  in  the  challenge 

of  the  storm,  indeed,  Ashe  felt,  as  many  another  strong 

man  has  felt  before  him,  in  a  similar  emptiness  of  heart. 

But  it  was  because  of  the  mere  provocation  of  physical 

energy  which  it  involved;  not,  as  it  would  have  been 

with  him  in  youth,  because  of  the  infinitude  and  vast- 

ness  of  nature,  breathing  power  and  expectation  into 

man: 

"  EflFort,  and  expectation  and  desire — 
And  something  evermore  about  to  be !" 

He  flung  the  words  upon  the  wind,  which  scattered 
them  as  soon  as  they  were  uttered,  merely  that  he  might 
give  them  a  bitter  denial,  reject  for  himself,  now  and 
always,  the  temper  they  expressed.  He  had  known  it 
well,  none  better! — gone  to  bed,  and  risen  up  with  it — 
the  mere  joy  in  the  "mere  living."  It  had  seasoned 
everything,  twined  round  everything,  great  and  small — a 
day's  trout-fishing  or  deer-stalking;  a  new  book,  a  friend, 
a  famous  place;  then  politics,  and  the  joys  of- power. 

542 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Gone!  Here  he  was,  hurrying  back  to  England,  to 
take  perhaps  in  his  still  young  hand  the  helm  of  her  vast 
fortunes;  and  of  all  the  old  "expectation  and  desire," 
the  old  passion  of  hope,  the  old  sense  of  the  magic  that 
lies  in  things  unknown  and  ways  untrodden,  he  seemed 
to  himself  now  incapable.  He  would  do  his  best,  and 
without  the  political  wrestle  life  would  be  too  trifling 
to  be  borne;  but  the  relish  and  the  savor  were  gone,  and 
all  was  gray. 

Ah! — he  remembered  one  or  two  storm -walks  with 
Kitty  in  their  engaged  or  early  married  days — in  Scot- 
land chiefly.  As  he  trudged  up  this  Swiss  pass  he  could 
see  stretches  of  Scotch  heather  under  drifting  mist, 
and  ieA  a  little  figure  in  its  tweed  dress  fltmg  suddenly 
by  the  wind  and  its  own  soft  will  against  his  arm.  And 
then,  the  sudden  embrace,  and  the  wet,  fragrant  cheek, 
and  her  voice — mocking  and  sweet! 

Oh,  God!  where  was  she  now?  The  shock  of  her 
disappearance  from  Venice  had  left  in  some  ways  a 
deeper  mark  upon  him  than  even  the  original  catas- 
trophe. For  who  that  had  known  her  could  think  of 
such  a  being,  alone,  in  a  world  of  strangers,  without  a 
peculiar  dread  and  anguish?  That  she  was  ahve  he 
knew,  for  her  five  hundred  a  year — and  she  had  never 
accepted  another  penny  from  him  since  her  flight — was 
still  drawn  on  her  behalf  by  a  banking  firm  in  Paris. 
His  solicitors,  since  the  failure  of  their  first  efforts  to 
trace  her  after  Cliff e's  death,  had  made  repeated  in- 
quiries; Ashe  had  himself  gone  to  Paris  to  see  the 
bankers  in  question.  But  he  was  met  by  their  solemn 
promise  to  Kitty  to  keep  her  secret  inviolate.    Madame 

543 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

d'Estrees  supplied  him  with  the  name  of  the  convent  in 
which  Kitty  had  been  brought  up;  but  the  mother 
superior  denied  all  knowledge  of  her.  Meanwhile  no 
course  of  action  on  Kitty's  part  could  have  restored  her 
so  effectually  to  her  place  in  Ashe's  imagination.  She 
haunted  his  days  and  nights.  So  also  did  his  memory 
of  the  Dean's  petition.  Insensibly,  without  argument, 
the  whole  attitude  of  his  mind  thereto  had  broken  down ; 
since  he  had  been  out  of  office,  and  his  days  and  nights 
were  no  longer  absorbed  in  the  detail  of  administration 
and  Parliamentary  leadership,  he  had  been  the  defence- 
less prey  of  grief;  yearning  and  pity  and  agonized  regret, 
rising  from  the  deep  subconscious  self,  had  overpowered 
his  first  recoil  and  determination;  and  in  the  absence  of 
all  other  passionate  hope,  the  one  desire  and  dream 
which  still  lived  warm  and  throbbing  at  his  heart  was 
the  dream  that  still  in  some  crowd,  or  loneliness,  he 
might  again,  before  it  was  too  late,  see  Kitty's  face  and 
the  wildness  of  Kitty's  eyes. 

And  he  believed  much  the  same  process  had  taken 
place  in  his  mother's  feeling.  She  rarely  spoke  of  Kitty ; 
but  when  she  did  the  doubt  and  soreness  of  her  mind 
were  plain.  Her  own  life  had  grown  very  solitary.  And 
in  particular  the  old  friendship  between  her  and  Polly 
Lyster  had  entirely  ceased  to  be.  Lady  Tranmore 
shivered  when  she  was  named,  and  would  never  herself 
speak  of  her  if  she  could  help  it.  Ashe  had  tried  in  vain 
to  make  her  explain  herself.  Surely  it  was  incredible 
that  she  could  in  any  way  blame  Mary  for  the  incident 
at  Verona?  Ashe,  of  course,  remembered  the  passage 
in  his  mother's  letter  from  Venice,  and  they  had  the  maid 
Blanche's  report  to  Lady  Tranmore,  of  Kitty's  inten- 

544 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

tions  when  she  left  Venice,  of  her  terror  when  Cliff e  ap- 
peared— of  her  swoon.  But  he  believed  with  the  Dean 
that  any  treacherous  servant  could  have  brought  about 
the  catastrophe.  Vincenzo,  one  of  the  gondoliers  who 
took  Kitty  to  the  station,  had  seen  the  luggage  labelled 
for  Verona;  no  doubt  Cliffe  had  bribed  him;  and  this  ex- 
planation was,  indeed,  suggested  to  Lady  Tranmore  by 
the  maid.  His  mother's  suspicion — if  indeed  she  enter- 
tained it — was  so  hideous  that  Ashe,  finding  it  impos- 
sible to  make  his  own  mind  harbor  it  for  an  instant,  was 
harrowed  by  the  mere  possibility  of  its  existence;  as 
though  it  represented  some  hidden  sore  of  conscious- 
ness that  refused  either  to  be  probed  or  healed. 

As  he  labored  on  against  the  storm  all  thought  of 
his  present  life  and  activities  dropped  away  from  him; 
he  lived  entirely  in  the  past.  "What  is  it  in  me,"  he 
thought,  "that  has  made  the  difference  between  my  life 
and  that  of  other  men  I  know — that  weakened  me  so 
with  Kitty?"  He  canvassed  his  own  character,  as  a 
third  person  might  have  done. 

The  Christian,  no  doubt,  would  say  that  his  married 
life  had  failed  because  God  had  been  absent  from  it, 
because  there  had  been  in  it  no  consciousness  of  higher 
law,  of  compelling  grace. 

Ashe  pondered  what  such  things  might  mean.  "The 
Christian — in  speculative  belief — fails  under  the  chal- 
lenge of  life  as  often  as  other  men.  Surely  it  depends 
on  something  infinitely  more  primitive  and  fundamental 
than  Christianity  ? — something  out  of  which  Christian- 
ity itself  springs?  But  this  something — does  it  really 
exist — or  am  I  only  cheating  myself  by  fancying  it? 
Is  it,  as  all  the  sages  have  said,  the  pursuit  of  some 

545 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

eternal  good,  the  identification  of  the  self  with  it — the 
*  dying  to  live '  ?  And  is  this  the  real  meaning  at  the 
heart  of  Christianity  ? — at  the  heart  of  all  religion  ? — 
the  everlasting  meaning,  let  science  play  what  havoc  it 
please  with  outward  forms  and  statements?" 

Had  he,  perhaps,  doubted  the  soul? 

He  groaned  aloud.  "O  my  God,  what  matter  that  I 
should  grow  wise — if  Kitty  is  lost  and  desolate?" 

And  he  trampled  on  his  own  thoughts — feeling  them 
a  mere  hypocrisy  and  offence. 

As  they  left  the  Gondo  ravine  and  began  to  climb  the 
zigzag  road  to  the  Simplon  inn,  the  storm  grew  still 
wilder,  and  the  driver,  with  set  lips  and  dripping  face, 
urged  his  patient  beasts  against  a  deluge.  The  road  ran 
rivers;  each  torrent,  carefully  channelled,  that  passed 
beneath  it  brought  down  wood  and  soil  in  choking 
abundance;  and  Ashe  watched  the  downward  push  of 
the  rain  on  the  high,  exposed  banks  above  the  carriage. 
Once  they  passed  a  fragment  of  road  which  had  been 
washed  away;  the  driver  pointing  to  it  said  something 
sulkily  about  "frane"  on  the  "other  side." 

This  bad  moment,  however,  proved  to  be  the  last  and 
worst,  and  when  they  emerged  upon  the  high  valley  in 
which  stands  the  village  of  Simplon,  the  rain  was  already 
lessening  and  the  clouds  rolling  up  the  great  sides  and 
peaks  of  the  Fletschhorn.  Ashe  promised  himself  a  com- 
paratively fine  evening  and  a  rapid  run  down  to  Brieg. 

Outside  the  old  Simplon  posting-house,  however,  they 
presently  came  upon  a  crowd  of  vehicles  of  every  de- 
scription, of  which  the  drivers  were  standing  in  groups 
with  dripping  rugs  across  their  shoulders — shouting  and 
gesticulating. 

546 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

And  as  they  drove  up  the  news  was  thundered  at 
them  in  every  possible  tongue.  Between  the  hospice 
and  Berizal  two  hundred  metres  of  road  had  been  com- 
pletely washed  away.  The  afternoon  diligence  had  just 
got  through  by  a  miracle  an  hour  before  the  accident 
occurred ;  before  anything  else  could  pass  it  would  take 
at  least  ten  or  twelve  hours'  hard  work,  through  the 
night,  before  the  laborers  now  being  requisitioned  by 
the  commune  could  possibly  provide  even  a  temporary 
passage. 

Ashe  in  despair  went  into  the  inn  to  speak  with  the 
landlord,  and  found  that  unless  he  was  prepared  to 
abandon  books  and  papers,  and  make  a  push  for  it  over 
mountain  paths  covered  deep  in  fresh  snow,  there  was 
no  possible  escape  from  the  dilemma.  He  must  stay 
the  night.  The  navvies  were  already  on  their  way; 
and  as  soon  as  ever  the  road  was  passable  he  should 
know.  For  not  even  a  future  Prime  Minister  of  Eng- 
land could  Herr  Ludwig  do  more. 

He  and  Dell  went  gloomily  up  the  narrow  stone  stairs 
of  the  inn  to  look  at  the  bedrooms,  which  were  low- 
roofed  and  primitive,  penetrated  everywhere  by  the 
roar  of  a  stream  which  came  down  close  behind  the  inn. 
Through  the  open  door  of  one  of  the  rooms  Ashe  saw 
the  foaming  mass,  framed  as  it  were  in  a  window,  and 
almost  in  the  house. 

He  chose  tw^o  small  rooms  looking  on  the  street,  and 
bade  Dell  get  a  fire  lit  in  one  of  them,  a  bed  moved  out, 
an  arm-chair  moved  in,  and  as  large  a  table  set  for  him 
as  the  inn  could  provide,  while  he  took  a  stroll  before 
dinner.  He  had  some  important  letters  to  answer,  and 
he  pointed  out  to  Dell  the  bag  which  contained  them. 

547 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

Then  he  stepped  out  into  the  muddy  street,  which  was 
still  a  confusion  of  horses,  vehicles,  and  men,  and,  turning 
up  a  path  behind  the  inn,  was  soon  in  solitude.  An 
evening  of  splendor!  Nature  was  still  in  a  tragic,  de- 
clamatory mood — sending  piled  thunder-clouds  of  daz- 
zling white  across  a  sky  extravagantly  blue,  and  throw- 
ing on  the  high  snow  -  fields  and  craggy  tops  a  fierce, 
flame  -  colored  light.  The  valley  was  resonant  with 
angry  sound,  and  the  village,  now  in  shadow,  with  its 
slender,  crumbling  campanile,  seemed  like  a  cowering 
thing  over  which  the  eagle  has  passed. 

The  grandeur  and  the  freshness,  the  free,  elemental 
play  of  stream  and  sky  and  mountain,  seized  upon  a  man 
in  whom  the  main  impulses  of  life  were  already  weary, 
and  filled  him  with  an  involuntary  physical  delight.  He 
noticed  the  flowers  at  his  feet,  in  the  drenched  grass 
which  was  already  lifting  up  its  battered  stalks,  and  along 
the  margins  of  the  streams — deep  blue  colombines,  white 
lilies,  and  yellow  anemones.  Incomparable  beauty  lived 
and  breathed  in  each  foot  of  pasture ;  and  when  he  raised 
his  eyes  from  the  grass  they  fed  on  visionary  splendors 
of  snow  and  rock,  stretching  into  the  heavens. 

No  life  visible — except  a  line  of  homing  cattle,  led  by 
a  little  girl  wi  h  tucked-up  skirt  and  bare  feet.  And — 
in  the  distance — the  slender  figure  of  a  woman  walking 
— stopping  often  to  gather  a  flower — or  to  rest?  Not 
a  woman  of  the  valley,  clearly.  No  doubt  a  traveller, 
weather-bound  like  himself  at  the  inn.  He  watched  the 
figure  a  little,  for  some  vague  grace  of  movement  that 
seemed  to  enter  into  and  make  a  part  of  that  high  beauty 
in  which  the  scene  was  steeped;  but  it  disappeared  be- 
hind a  fold  of  pasture,  and  he  did  not  see  it  again.  • 

548 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

In  spite  of  the  multitude  of  vehicles  gathered  about 
the  inn  there  were  not  so  many  guests  in  the  salle-a- 
manger,  when  Ashe  entered  it,  as  he  had  expected.  He 
supposed  that  a  majority  of  these  vehicles  must  be  re- 
turn carriages  from  Brieg.  Still  there  was  much  clatter 
of  talk  and  plates,  and  German  seemed  to  be  the  pre- 
vailing tongue.  Except  for  a  couple  whom  Ashe  took 
to  be  a  Genevese  professor  and  his  wife,  there  was  no 
lady  in  the  room. 

He  lingered  somewhat  late  at  table,  toying  with  his 
orange,  and  reading  a  Journal  de  Geneve,  captured  from 
a  neighbor,  which  contained  an  excellent  "London  let- 
ter." The  room  emptied.  The  two  Swiss  handmaidens 
came  in  to  clear  away  soiled  linen  and  arrange  the  tables 
for  the  morning's  coffee.  Only,  at  a  farther  table,  a 
convert  for  one  person,  set  by  itself,  remained  still  un- 
touched. 

He  happened  to  be  alone  in  the  room  when  the  door 
again  opened  and  a  lady  entered.  She  did  not  see  him 
behind  his  newspaper,  and  she  walked  languidly  to  the 
farther  table  and  sat  down.  As  she  did  so  she  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing,  and  when  it  was  over  she 
leaned  her  head  on  her  hands,  gasping. 

Ashe  had  half  risen — the  newspaper  was  crushed  in 
his  hand — when  the  Swiss  waitress  whom  the  men  of 
the  inn  called  Fraulein  Anna  —  who  was,  indeed,  the 
daughter  of  the  landlord — came  back. 

"How  are  you,  madame?"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  and 
in  a  slow  English  of  which  she  was  evidently  proud. 

"  I'm  better  to-day,"  said  the  other,  hastily.  "  I  shall 
start  to-morrow.  What  a  noise  there  is  to-night!" 
she  added,  in  a  tone  both  fretful  and  weary. 

549 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"  We  are  so  full — it  is  the  accident  to  the  road, 
madame.  Will  madame  have  a  the  complet  as  be- 
fore?" 

The  lady  nodded,  and  Fraulein  Anna,  who  evidently 
knew  her  ways,  brought  in  the  tea  at  once,  stayed  chat- 
ting beside  her  for  a  minute,  and  then  departed,  with  a 
long,  disapproving  look  at  the  gentleman  in  the  corner 
who  was  so  long  over  his  coffee  and  would  not  let  her 
clear  away. 

Ashe  made  a  fierce  effort  to  still  the  thumping  in  his 
breast  and  decide  what  he  should  do.  For  the  guests 
there  was  only  one  door  of  entrance  or  exit,  and  to  reach 
it  he  must  pass  close  beside  the  new-comer. 

He  laid  down  his  newspaper.  She  heard  the  rustling, 
and  involuntarily  looked  round. 

There  was  a  slight  sound — an  exclamation.  She  rose. 
He  heard  and  saw  her  coming,  and  sat  tranced  and 
motionless,  his  eyes  bent  upon  her.  She  came  tottering, 
clinging  to  the  chairs,  her  hand  on  her  side,  till  she 
reached  the  corner  where  he  was. 

"William!"  she  said,  with  a  little,  glad  sob,  under  her 
breath — "William!" 

He  himself  could  not  speak.  He  stood  there  gazing 
at  her,  his  lips  moving  without  sound.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  she  turned  her  head  a  moment,  as  though  to 
look  for  some  one  beside  him — with  an  exquisite  tremor 
of  the  mouth. 

"  Isn't  it  strange  ?"  she  said,  in  the  same  guarded  voice. 
"  I  had  a  dream  once — a  valley — and  mountains — and 
an  inn.     You  sat  here — just  like  this — and — " 

She  put  up  her  hands  to  her  eyes  a  moment,  shivered, 
and  withdrew  them.     From  her  expression  she  seemed 

55° 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

to  be  waiting  for  him  to  speak.     He  moved  and  stood 
beside  her. 

"Where  can  we  talk?"  he  said,  with  difficulty. 
She  shook  her  head  vaguely,  looking  round  her  with 
that  slight  frown,  complaining  and  yet  sweet,  which  was 
like  a  touch  of  fire  on  memory. 

The  waitress  came  back  into  the  room. 
"It  is  odd  to  have  met  you  here!"  said  Kitty,  in  a 
laughing  voice.     "Let  us  go  into  the  salon  de  lecture. 
The   maids   want   to   clear   away.     Please   bring   your 
newspaper." 

Fraulein  Anna  looked  at  them  with  a  momentary 
curiosity,  and  went  on  with  her  work.  They  passed  into 
the  passage-way  outside,  which  was  full  of  smokers  over- 
flowing from  the  crowded  room  beyond,  where  the  hum- 
bler frequenters  of  the  inn  ate  and  drank. 

Kitty  glanced  round  her  in  bewilderment.  "The 
salon  de  lecture  will  be  full,  too.  Where  shall  we  go?" 
she  said,  looking  up. 

Ashe's  hand  clinched  as  it  hung  beside  him.  The 
old  gesture  —  and  the  drawn,  emaciated  face  —  they 
pierced  the  heart. 

"I  told  my  servant  to  arrange  me  a  sitting-room 
up-stairs,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  in  her  ear.  "Will  you  go 
up  first? — number  ten." 

She  nodded,  and  began  slowly  to  mount  the  stairs, 
coughing  as  she  went.  The  man  whom  Ashe  had  taken 
for  a  Genevese  professor  looked  after  her,  glanced  at  his 
neighbor,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Phthisique," 
he  said,  with  a  note  of  pity.  The  other  nodded.  "Et 
d'un  type  tr^s  avanc^!" 

They  moved  towards  the  door  and  stood  looking  into 

^'  551 


The   Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

the  night,  which  was  dark  with  intermittent  rain.  Ashe 
studied  a  map  of  the  commune  which  hung  on  the  wall 
beside  him,  till  at  a  moment  when  the  passage  had 
become  comparatively  clear  he  turned  and  went  up- 
stairs. 

The  door  of  his  improvised  salon  was  ajar.  Beyond 
it  his  valet  was  coming  out  of  his  bedroom  with  wet 
clothes  over  his  arm.  Ashe  hesitated.  But  the  man 
had  been  with  him  through  the  greater  part  of  his  mar- 
ried life,  and  was  a  good  heart.  He  beckoned  him  back 
into  the  room  he  was  leaving,  and  the  two  stepped 
inside. 

"  Dell,  my  good  fellow,  I  want  your  help.  I  have  just 
met  my  wife  here — Lady  Kitty.  You  understand. 
Neither  of  us,  of  course,  had  any  idea.  Lady  Kitty  is 
very  ill.  We  wish  to  have  a  conversation — uninter- 
rupted.    I  trust  you  to  keep  guard." 

The  young  man,  son  of  one  of  the  Haggart  gardeners, 
started  and  flushed,  then  gave  his  master  a  look  of 
sympathy. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  sir." 

Ashe  nodded  and  went  back  to  the  next  room.  He 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  Kitty,  who  was  sitting  by 
the  fire,  half  rose.  Their  eyes  met.  Then  with  a  stifled 
cry  he  flung  himself  down,  kneeling  beside  her,  and  she 
sank  into  his  arms.  His  tears  fell  on  her  face,  anguish 
and  pity  overwhelmed  him. 

"You  may!"  she  said,  brokenly,  putting  up  her  hand 
to  his  cheek,  and  kissing  him — "  you  may!  I'm  not  mad 
or  wicked  now — and  I'm  dying!" 

Agonized  murmurs  of  love,  pardon,  self  -  abasement 
passed  between  them.     It  was  as  though  a  great  stream 

552 


The    Marriage    of   William   Ashe 

bore  them  on  its  breast;  an  awful  and  majestic  power 
enwrapped  them,  and  made  each  word,  each  kiss,  won- 
derful, sacramental.  He  drew  himself  away  at  last, 
holding  her  hair  back  from  her  brow  and  temples,  study- 
ing her  features,  his  own  face  convulsed. 

"Where  have  you  been?  Why  did  you  hide  from 
me?" 

"  You  forbade  me,"  she  said,  stroking  his  hair.  "And 
it  was  quite  right.  The  dear  Dean  told  me — and  I  quite 
understood.  If  I'd  gone  to  Haggart  then  there'd  have 
been  more  trouble.  I  should  have  tried  to  get  my  old 
place  back.  And  now  it's  all  over.  You  can  give  me 
all  I  want,  because  I  can't  live.  It's  only  a  question  of 
months,  perhaps  weeks.  Nobody  could  blame  you,  c^uld 
they?  People  don't  laugh  when  —  it's  death.  It  sim- 
plifies things  so — doesn't  it?" 

She  smiled,  and  nestled  to  him  again. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said,  almost  violently. 
"  Why  are  you  so  ill  ?" 

"It  was  Bosnia  first,  and  then — being  miserable — I 
suppose.  And  Poitiers  was  very  cold — and  the  nuns 
very  stuflfy,  bless  them — they  wouldn't  let  me  have  air 
enough." 

He  groaned  aloud  while  he  remembered  his  winter  in 
London,  in  the  forlorn  Itixury  of  the  Park  Lane  house. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  he  repeated. 

"Oh!  I  went  to  the  Soeurs  Blanches — you  remember? 
— where  I  used  to  be.  You  went  there,  didn't  you?" — 
he  made  a  sign  of  miserable  assent — "but  I  made  them 
promise  not  to  tell!  There  was  an  old  mistress  of  nov- 
ices there  still  who  used  to  be  very  fond  of  me.  She  got 
one  of  the  houses  of  the  Sacre  Coeur  to  take  me  in — at 

553 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Poitiers.  They  thought  they  were  gathering  a  stray 
sheep  back  into  the  fold,  you  understand,  as  I  was 
brought  up  a  CathoHc — of  sorts.  And  I  didn't  mind!" 
The  famiHar  intonation,  soft,  complacent,  humorous, 
rose  like  a  ghost  between  them.  "I  used  to  like  going 
to  mass.  But  this  Easter  they  wanted  to  make  me  '  go 
to  my  duties' — you  know  what  it  means? — and  I 
wouldn't.  I  wanted  to  confess."  She  shuddered  and 
drew  his  face  down  to  hers  again — "but  only  once — to — 
you — and  then,  well  then,  to  die,  and  have  done  with 
it.  You  see,  I  knew  one  can't  get  on  long  with  three- 
quarters  of  a  lung.  And  they  were  rather  tiresome — 
they  didn't  understand.  So  three  weeks  ago  I  drew 
some  money  out  and  said  good-bye  to  them.  Oh! 
they  were  very  kind,  and  very  sorry  for  me.  They 
wanted  me  to  take  a  maid,  and  I  meant  to.  But  the 
one  they  found  wouldn't  come  with  me  when  she  saw 
how  ill  I  was — and  it  all  lingered  on — so  one  day  I 
just  walked  out  to  the  railway-station  and  went  to  Paris. 
But  Paris  was  rainy — and  I  felt  I  must  see  the  sun 
again.  So  I  stayed  two  nights  at  a  little  hotel  maman 
used  to  go  to — horrid  place! — and  each  night  I  read  your 
speeches  in  the  reading-room — and  then  I  got  my  things 
from  Poitiers,  and  started — " 

A  fit  of  coughing  stopped  her,  coughing  so  terrible 
and  destructive  that  he  almost  rushed  for  help.  But 
she  restrained  him.  She  made  him  understand  that  she 
wanted  certain  remedies  from  her  own  room  across  the 
corridor.  He  went  for  them.  The  door  of  this  room 
had  been  shut  by  the  observant  Dell,  who  was  watching 
the  passage  from  his  own  bedroom  farther  on.  When 
Ashe  had  opened  it  he  found  himself  face  to  face  as  it 

554 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

were  with  the  foaming  stream  outside.  The  window,  as 
he  had  seen  it  before,  was  wide  open  to  the  water-fall 
just  beyond  it,  and  the  temperature  was  piercingly  cold 
and  damp.  The  furniture  was  of  the  roughest,  and  a 
few  of  Kitty's  clothes  lay  scattered  about.  As  he 
fumbled  for  a  light,  there  hovered  before  his  eyes  the 
remembrance  of  their  room  in  Hill  Street,  strewn  with 
chiffons  and  all  the  elegant  and  costly  trifles  that  made 
the  natural  setting  of  its  mistress. 

He  found  the  medicines  and  hurried  back.  She 
feebly  gave  him  directions.  "Now  the  strychnine! — 
and  some  brandy." 

He  did  all  he  could.  He  drew  some  chairs  together 
before  the  fire,  and  made  a  couch  for  her  with  pillows 
and  rugs.  She  thanked  him  with  smiles,  and  her  eyes 
followed  his  every  movement. 

"Tell  your  man  to  get  some  milk!  And  listen  " — she 
caught  his  hand.  "Lock  my  door.  That  nice  woman 
down-stairs  will  come  to  look  after  me,  and  she'll  think 
I'm  asleep." 

It  was  done  as  she  wished.  Ashe  took  in  the  milk 
from  Dell's  hands,  and  a  fresh  supply  of  wood.  Then 
he  turned  the  key  in  his  own  door  and  came  back  to  her. 
She  was  lying  quiet,  and  seemed  revived. 

"How  coscy!"  she  said,  with  a  childish  pleasure,  look- 
ing round  her  at  the  bare  white  walls  and  scoured  boards 
warmed  with  the  fire-light.  The  bitter  tears  swam  in 
Ashe's  eyes.  He  fell  into  a  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fire,  and  stared — seeing  nothing — at  the  burning  logs. 

"You  needn't  suppose  that  I  don't  get  people  to  look 
after  me!"  she  went  on,  smiling  at  him  again,  one  shad- 
owy hand  propping  her  cheek.     And  she  prattled  on 

555 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

about  the  kindness  of  the  chambermaids  at  Vevey  and 
Brieg,  and  how  one  of  them  had  wanted  to  come  with 
her  as  her  maid.  "Oh!  I  shall  find  one  at  Florence  if  I 
get  there — or  a  nurse.  But  just  for  these  few  days  I 
wanted  to  be  free!  In  the  winter  there  were  so  many 
people  about — so  many  eyes!  I  just  pined  to  cheat 
them — get  quit  of  them.  A  maid  would  have  bothered 
me  to  stay  in  bed  and  see  doctors — and  you  know, 
William,  with  this  illness  of  mine  you're  so  restless!" 

."Where  were  you  going  to?"  he  said,  without  look- 
ing up. 

"Oh!  to  Italy  somewhere — just  to  see  some  flowers 
again — and  the  sun.     Only  not  to  Venice!" 

There  was  a  silence,  which  she  broke  by  a  sudden  cry 
as  she  drew  him  down  to  her. 

"William!  you  know — I  was  coming  home  to  you, 
when  that  man — found  me." 

"I  know.     If  it  had  only  been  I  who  killed  him!" 

"  I'm  just — Kitty!''  she  said,  choking — "  as  bad  as  bad 
can  be.  But  I  couldn't  have  done  what  Mary  Lyster 
did." 

"Kitty — for  God's  sake!" 

"Oh,  I  know  it,"  she  said,  almost  with  triumph — 
"now  I  l^now  it.  I  determined  to  know — and  I  got 
people  in  Venice  to  find  out.  She  sent  the  message — 
that  told  him  where  I  was — and  I  know  the  man  who 
took  it.  I  suppose  it  would  be  pathetic  if  I  sent  her 
word  that  I  had  forgiven  her.     But  I  haven't!'' 

Ashe  cried  out  that  it  was  wholly  and  utterly  incon- 
ceivable. 

"Oh  no! — she  hated  me  because  I  had  robbed  her  of 
Geoffrey.     I  had  killed  her  life,  I  suppose — she  killed 

556 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

mine.  It  was  what  I  deserved,  of  course;  only  just  at 
that  moment —  If  there  is  a  God,  William,  how  could 
He  have  let  it  happen  so?" 

The  tears  choked  her.  He  left  his  seat,  and,  kneeling 
beside  her,  he  raised  her  in  his  arms,  while  she  murmured 
broken  and  anguished  confessions. 

"  I  was  so  weak — and  frightened.  And  he  said,  it  was 
no  good  trying  to  go  back  to  you.  Everybody  knew 
I  had  gone  to  Verona — and  he  had  followed  me —  No 
one  would  ever  believe —  And  he  wouldn '  t  go — would  n '  t 
leave  me.  It  would  be  mere  cruelty  and  desertion,  he 
said.  My  real  life  was — with  him.  And  I  seemed — 
paralyzed.  Who  had  sent  that  message  ?  It  never  oc- 
curred to  me —  I  felt  as  if  some  demon  held  me — and 
1  couldn't  escape — " 

And  again  the  sighs  and  tears,  which  wrtmg  his 
heart — with  which  his  own  mingled.  He  tried  to  com- 
fort her ;  but  what  comfort  could  there  be  ?  They  had 
been  the  victims  of  a  crime  as  hideous  as  any  murder; 
and  yet — behind  the  crime — there  stretched  back  into 
the  past  the  preparations  and  antecedents  by  which  they 
themselves,  alack,  had  contributed  to  their  own  undoing. 
Had  they  not  both  trifled  with  the  mysterious  test  of 
life — he  no  less  than  she?  And  out  of  the  dark  had 
come  the  axe-stroke  that  ends  weakness,  and  crushes 
the  unsteeled,  inconstant  will. 

After  long  silence,  she  began  to  talk  in  a  rambling, 
delirious  way  of  her  months  in  Bosnia.  She  spoke  of 
the  cold — of  the  high  mountain  loneliness- — of  the  ter- 
rible sights  she  had  seen — till  he  drew  her,  shuddering, 
closer  into  his  arms.     And  yet  there  was  that  in  her 

SS7 


The    Marriage    of    William    Ashe 

talk  which  amazed  him;  flashes  of  insight,  of  profound 
and  passionate  experience,  which  seemed  to  fashion  her 
anew  before  his  eyes.  The  hard  peasant  hfe,  in  contact 
with  the  soil  and  natural  forces;  the  elemental  facts  of 
birth  and  motherhood,  of  daily  toil  and  suffering;  what 
it  means  to  fight  oppressors  for  freedom,  and  see  your 
dearest — son,  lover,  wife,  betrothed — die  horribly  amid 
the  clash  of  arms ;  into  this  caldron  of  human  fate  had 
Kitty  plunged  her  light  soul;  and  in  some  ways  Ashe 
scarcely  knew  her  again. 

She  recurred  often  to  the  story  of  a  youth,  handsome 
and  beardless,  who  had  been  wounded  by  a  stray  Turkish 
shot  in  the  course  of  the  long  climb  to  the  village  where 
she  nursed.  He  had  managed  to  gain  the  height,  and 
then,  killed  by  the  march  as  much  as  by  the  shot,  he  had 
sunk  down  to  die  on  the  ground-floor  of  the  house  where 
Kitty  Hved. 

"  He  was  a  stranger — no  one  knew  him  in  the  village 
— no  one  cared.  They  had  their  own  griefs.  I  dressed 
his  wound — and  gave  him  water.  He  thought  I  was  his 
mother,  and  asked  me  to  kiss  him.  I  kissed  him,  Will- 
iam— and  he  smiled  once — before  the  last  hemorrhage. 
If  you  had  seen  the  cold,  dismal  room— and  his  poor 
face!" 

Ashe  gathered  her  to  his  breast.  And  after  a  while 
she  said,  with  closed  eyes: 

"Oh,  what  pain  there  is  in  the  world,  WiUiam! — 
what  pain!     That's  what— I  never  knew." 

The  evening  wore  on.  All  the  noises  ceased  down- 
stairs. One  by  one  the  guests  came  up  the  stone  stairs 
and  along  the  creaking  corridor.     Boots  were  thrown 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

out;  the  doors  closed.  The  strokes  of  eleven  o'clock 
rang  out  from  the  village  campanile ;  and  amid  the  quiet 
of  the  now  drizzling  rain  the  echoes  of  the  bell  lingered 
on  the  ear.  Last  of  all  a  woman's  step  passed  the  door — 
stopped  at  the  door  of  Kitty's  room,  as  though  some 
one  listened,  and  then  gently  returned.  "Fraulein 
Anna!"  said  Kitty — "she's  a  good  soul." 

Soon  nothing  was  heard  but  the  roar  of  the  flooded 
stream  on  one  side  of  the  old  narrow  building  and  the 
dripping  of  rain  on  the  other.  Their  low  voices  were 
amply  covered  by  these  sounds.  The  night  lay  before 
them,  safe  and  undisturbed.  Candles  burned  on  the 
mantel-piece,  and  on  a  table  behind  Kitty's  head  was  a 
parafftne  lamp.     She  seemed  to  have  a  craving  for  light. 

"Kitty!"  said  Ashe,  suddenly  bending  over  her — 
"understand!     I  shall  never  leave  you  again." 

She  started,  her  head  fell  back  on  his  arm,  and  her 
brown  eyes  considered  him: 

"William!  I  saw  the  Standard  at  Geneva.  Aren't 
you  going  home — because  of  politics?" 

"  A  few  telegrams  will  settle  that.  I  shall  take  you  to 
Geneva  to-morrow.     We  shall  get  doctors  there." 

A  little  smile  played  about  her  mouth — a  smile  which 
did  not  seem  to  have  any  reference  to  his  words  or  to  her 
next  question. 

"  Nobody  thinks  of  the  book  now,  do  they,  William  ?" 

"No,  Kitty,  no!     It's  all  forgotten,  dear." 

"Oh,  it  was  abominable!"  She  drew  a  long  breath. 
"But  I  can't  help  it — I  did  get  a  horrid  pleasure  out  of 
writing  it — till  Venice — till  you  left  off  loving  me.  Oh, 
William!  William! — what  a  good  thing  it  is  I'm  dying!" 

"Hush,  Kitty— hush." 

559 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

"It  gives  one  such  an  unfair  advantage,  though, 
doesn't  it  ?  You  can't  ever  be  angry  with  me  again. 
There  won't  be  time.  WilHam,  dear! — I  haven't  had  a 
brain  Hke  other  people.  I  know  it.  It's  only  since  I've 
been  so  ill — that  I've  been  sane!  It's  a  strange  feeling 
— as  though  one  had  been  bled — and  some  poison  had 
drained  away.  But  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  take  a 
turn  and  live!  Oh  no! — people  like  me  are  better  safely 
under  the  grass.  Oh,  my  beloved!  my  beloved!  I  just 
want  to  say  that  all  the  time,  and  nothing  else — I've 
hungered  so  to  say  it!" 

He  answered  her  with  all  the  anguish,  all  the  pas- 
sionate, fruitless  tenderness  and  vain  comfortings  that 
rise  from  the  human  heart  in  such  a  strait.  But  when 
he  asked  her  pardon  for  his  hardness  towards  the  Dean's 
petition,  when  he  said  that  his  conscience  had  tormented 
him  thenceforward,  she  would  scarcely  hear  a  word. 

"You  did  quite  right," she  said, peremptorily — "quite 
right." 

Then  she  raised  herself  on  her  arm  and  looked  at 
him. 

"William!"  she  said,  with  a  strange,  kindled  expres- 
sion. "I — I  don't  think  I  can  live  any  more!  I  think 
— I'm  dying — here — now!" 

She  fell  back  on  her  pillows,  and  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  crying  that  he  must  go  for  Fraulein  Anna  and  a 
doctor.  But  she  held  him  feebly,  motioning  towards  the 
brandy  and  strychnine.     "That's  all — you  can  do." 

He  gave  them  to  her,  and  again  she  revived  and  smiled 
at  him. 

"Don't  be  frightened.  It  was  a  sudden  feeling — it 
came  over  me — that  this  dear  little  room — and  your 

560 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

arms — would  be  the  end.  Oh,  how  much  best!  There! 
— that  was  foolish! — I'm  better.  It  isn't  only  the 
lungs,  you  see;  they  say  the  heart's  worst.  I  nearly 
went  at  Vevey,  one  night.     It  was  such  a  long  faint." 

Then  she  lay  quiet,  with  her  hand  in  his,  in  a  dreamy, 
peaceful  state,  and  his  panic  subsided.  Once  she  sent 
messages  to  Lady  Tranmore — messages  full  of  sorrow, 
touched  also — by  a  word  here,  a  look  there — by  the 
charm  of  the  old  Kitty. 

"I  don't  deserve  to  die  like  this,"  she  said,  once,  with 
a  half-impatient  gesture.  "Nothing  can  prevent  it's 
being  beautiful — and  touching — you  know ;  our  meeting 
like  this — and  your  goodness  to  me.  Oh,  I'm  glad! 
But  I  don't  want  to  glorify — what  I've  done.  Shame! 
Shame!" 

And  again  her  face  contracted  with  the  old  habitual 
agony,  only  to  be  soothed  away  gradually  by  his  tone  and 
presence,  the  spending  of  his  whole  being  in  the  broken 
words  of  love. 

Towards  the  morning,  when,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  she 
had  been  sleeping  for  a  time,  and  he  had  been,  if  not 
sleeping,  at  least  dreaming  awake  beside  her,  he  heard  a 
little,  low  laugh,  and  looked  round.  Her  brown  eyes 
were  wide  ©pen,  till  they  seemed  to  fill  the  small,  blighted 
face;  and  they  were  fixed  on  an  empty  chair  the  other 
side  of  the  fire. 

"  It's  so  strange — in  this  illness,"  she  whispered — "  that 
it  makes  one  dream — and  generally  kind  dreams.  It's 
fever — ^but  it's  nice."  She  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
"  Harry  was  there,  William— sitting  in  that  chair.  Not 
a  baby  any  more— but  a  little  fellow — and  so  lively,  and 
strong,  and  quick.     I  had  you  both — both." 

S6i 


The    Marriage    of   William    Ashe 

Looking  back  afterwards,  also,  he  remembered  that 
she  spoke  several  times  of  religious  hopes  and  beliefs — 
especially  of  the  hope  in  another  life — and  that  they 
seemed  to  sustain  her.  Most  keenly  did  he  recollect 
the  delicacy  with  which  she  had  refrained  from  asking 
his  opinion  upon  them,  lest  it  should  trouble  him  not  to 
be  able  to  uphold  or  agree  with  her;  while,  at  the  same 
time,  she  wished  him  to  have  the  comfort  of  remember- 
ing that  she  had  drawn  strength  and  calm,  in  these  last 
hours,  from  religious  thoughts. 

For  they  proved,  indeed,  to  be  the  last  hours.  About 
three  the  morning  began  to  dawn,  clear  and  rosy,  with 
rich  lights  striking  on  the  snow.  Suddenly  Kitty  sat 
up,  disengaged  herself  from  her  wraps,  and  tottered  to 
her  feet. 

"I'll  go  back  to  my  room,"  she  said, in  bewilderment. 
"I'd  rather." 

And  as  she  clung  to  him,  with  a  startled  yet  half- 
considering  look,  she  gazed  round  her,  at  the  bright  fire, 
the  morning  light,  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen — 
his  face. 

He  tried  to  dissuade  her.  But  she  would  go.  Her 
aspect,  however,  was  deathlike,  and  as  he  softly  undid 
the  doors,  and  half-helped,  half-carried  her  across  the 
passage,  he  said  to  her  that  he  must  go  and  waken 
Fraulein  Anna  and  find  a  doctor. 

"No — no."  She  grasped  him  with  all  her  remaining 
strength;  "stay  with  me." 

They  entered  the  little  room;  which  seemed  to  be  in  a 
glory  of  light,  for  the  sun  striking  across  the  low  roof  of 
the  inn  had  caught  the  foamy  water-fall  beyond,  and  the 

562 


The    Marriage    of  William    Ashe 

reflection  of  it  on  the  white  walls  and  ceiling  was  daz- 
zling. 

Beside  the  bed  she  swayed  and  nearly  fell. 

"I  won't  undress,"  she  murmured  —  "I'll  just  lie 
down." 

She  lay  down  with  his  help,  turning  her  face  to  make 
a  fond,  hardly  articulate  sound,  and  press  her  cheek 
against  his.  In  a  few  minutes  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
was  sleeping  again.  He  softly  went  out  of  the  room 
and  down-stairs.  There,  early  as  it  was,  he  found  Frau- 
lein  Anna,  who  looked  at  him  with  amazement. 

"Where  can  I  find  a  doctor?"  he  asked  her;  and  they 
talked  for  a  few  minutes,  after  which  she  went  up-stairs 
beside  him,  trembling  and  flushed. 

They  found  Kitty  lying  on  her  side,  her  face  hidden 
entirely  in  the  curls  which  had  fallen  across  it,  and  one 
arm  hanging.  There  was  that  in  her  aspect  which  made 
them  both  recoil.  Then  Ashe  rushed  to  her  with  a  cry, 
and  as  he  passionately  kissed  her  cold  cheek  he  heard 
the  clamor  of  the  frightened  girl  behind  him.  "Ach, 
Gott! — Ach  Gott!" — and  the  voices  of  others,  men  and 
women,  who  began  to  crowd  into  the  narrow  room. 


THE    END 


51  m- 
M3- 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Series  9482 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A         001  423  883  6 


